


Dovetail Joints

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Lead me to your door [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Foul Deeds, M/M, Polyamorous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: D'Artagnan and Athos are in love, Richelieu has had a well deserved smackdown, and all's right with the world.Right up until they have to bring a spy back to the palace, and the Comte de Rochefort becomes a force for evil in all their lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue from the BBC series, but most of it is mine. If you recognise it, I didn't write it. Covers Season 2 from the perspective of my AU premise - that Athos married Catherine de Garouville, not Anne de Breuil.

For an entire four weeks after d’Artagnan and Athos returned from Le Havre, the Musketeers led the quietest, not to mention the most untroubled lives Athos could remember since he joined the regiment. The Red Guard were conspicuously absent from taverns, streets, and whorehouses, and Treville made not a single complaint in Athos’s hearing about the latest nonsense the cardinal was up to. It was on the verge of becoming boring, and as any seasoned soldier well knew, this was the likeliest time for an enemy attack. Or, at least, a random explosion.

Yet Athos’s sense for trouble remain quiescent that morning they were asked to attend the royal couple at the palace, along with the captain. It was only once they stabled their horses that something in the air, the slightly quick way the servants were walking, the slightly quieter way in which they were talking, gave him the first hint that change was afoot. Athos could tell Aramis sensed it too, his eyes darting, looking for an ambush, and if Aramis was alert, then so must Porthos be. Only d’Artagnan, unused to the court, walked on, happy and brave, always ready for action, but suspecting nothing. Treville was too seasoned at court politics to give the smallest hint of his feelings in this place.

The cardinal had been summoned, he overheard a guard tell his companion. Nay, had been _demanded_ to attend the king, as if to face....

What? The guard’s whispers were maddeningly unhelpful. But the cardinal rarely needed to be summoned, because he was the king’s constant advisor and companion. Was it possible that the queen had told his majesty about the assassination plot? Or had Richelieu made another mistake, one even the king could not overlook?

The five Musketeers stood in the small audience chamber with the Count Mellendorf and his daughter. The two foreigners looked well, considering the vile plot to implicate them, though they were subdued naturally enough. The queen looked as beautiful as ever, the king trying and failing to hold back some strong emotion. Good or bad? Athos could honestly not tell, which was rare with this monarch. They all waited for his eminence.

At last the man appeared, as pale and subdued as Charlotte Mellendorf herself, and the king’s opening words drained what little colour Richelieu’s aged features had retained. Athos didn’t dare look at his friends, nor at the queen, for fear of giving himself away. He stared straight ahead, and prayed d’Artagnan followed his lead.

His majesty took his wife’s hand and said, “The queen is with child.”

Richelieu exhaled with violent relief. Her majesty smiled serenely, her spouse more openly, applauding the news. But as the four Musketeers joined in the clapping, Athos realised that this was the explosion he should have anticipated.

Captain Treville smirked as the Mellendorfs were pardoned, the cardinal forced to accept defeat on that front too. Fortunately their captain did not note the way Aramis stared at the queen, nor pay any attention to the man slipping away to speak to her majesty before Athos could stop him. All Athos could do was make up a spurious reason for his friend’s brief absence, and pretend not to notice Aramis’s sombre expression as he returned.

D’Artagnan was delighted, as well anyone might be who had no idea of the dark currents behind the news. “Now that’s a proper poke in the eye for his eminence. If he lays a hand on her majesty now....”

“The whole palace will fight to cut it off,” Porthos said, grinning hugely. “Let’s just hope it’s a boy, eh, Athos.”

“Indeed,” Athos agreed. Aramis said nothing, which was as loud a declaration of his inner misery as any who knew him needed. Yet Porthos, riding ahead, didn’t appear to pick up on it.

D’Artagnan did, and back at the garrison, on the pretext of walking with Athos to talk to him about training, quietly asked, “Was Aramis very attached to Charlotte Mellendorf?”

“Apparently.” Athos knew that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the lad but did not want to talk about this in public. He closed the door behind them in his room.

“And yet I could have sworn he has spent much more time here of late, so when did this attachment form? While we were away?”

Athos grunted, pretending to be busy folding his dirty clothes. D’Artagnan took them out of his hand. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Athos looked d’Artagnan in the eye. “What you must not know, must not ask about, and must not speculate upon. Don’t force me to lie to you, d’Artagnan, and do not try to make anyone else answer your questions.”

“In other words, I’m not experienced enough to know the answer.”

Athos put his hand on his lover’s shoulders. “That’s not the problem. Trust me, and believe me when I say I wish I could be spared the knowledge of the answer. You must not know, and you must not know there is anything to know. There is more than your safety at stake. Please, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan looked deeply into his eyes, searching for the truth. Then he nodded. “Very well. Is there anything I can do? For him, for you?”

“Just be the soldier I know you to be, the friend he trusts you to be.”

D’Artagnan leaned his forehead against Athos’s. “Very well.”

“I’ll see you in the training yard shortly.”

A quick kiss, and d’Artagnan left him alone. Athos sat on his bed. This was a potential disaster, because so much depended on Aramis being able to hide his emotions. Aramis usually kept his secrets well, but if this morning was anything to judge it by, the queen and the baby were his Achilles’ heel. Richelieu, had he seen Aramis, would have guessed the truth in moments. Athos would have to contrive to keep the two men apart—and Aramis and the queen separated as best as he knew how.

In the end, bad luck on the cardinal’s part proved to be good luck for Athos—and for Aramis. Richelieu’s heart—hitherto considered a mythical organ—began to fail, and his presence at court lessened as the queen’s womb bloomed. While Aramis still looked distraught every time he caught sight of her majesty—and her condition—he had the sense to keep away from temptation. He spent many nights away from the garrison, and so far as any of his comrades knew, in the arms of one or other of his lovers. Athos, having seen him slip in and out, and following him twice out of concern, was certain that none of Aramis’s paramours resided in the churches where Aramis truly passed the evening hours.

Athos should have offered him comfort and company on those evenings, but it was a subject so dangerous, so treasonous, that he could not bring himself to broach it. And Aramis was, as usual, too close-mouthed about his own pain to seek solace from a friend.

D’Artagnan and Porthos continued quite unaware of the situation, to Athos’s relief, but also his regret. If they had known, Aramis would have had their support. But if they did know, they too would swing for treason. Athos could only hope that once the baby was born and the queen occupied with motherhood, that the connection between Aramis and her majesty would die from lack of attention.

Though it had been expected for weeks, the announcement of the cardinal’s death came as a shock, perhaps because it was widely believed the cardinal was too evil for even the devil to take him. But whoever claimed his soul, his body gave up just as any other man’s might. Athos was already preparing to appear as regretful at the man’s passing as he could pretend, but Treville spared him the trouble, ordering the four of them to ride north and meet a contact with information vital to the king, far away from the Louvre and all the rituals of death.

“Let us hope that by the time you return, her majesty will be delivered of a son,” the captain said after giving Athos the orders for their mission.

“Whatever the sex of the child, it is to be hoped she emerges from this safely.”

Treville shook his head. “It has to be a boy. It’s nothing short of a miracle that the queen has fallen pregnant successfully at last. A second miracle would most likely be impossible.”

Athos nodded, but the baby would be born as it was, the hopes of the Bourbon dynasty notwithstanding.

“Did the queen ask you about Madame Bonacieux?”

Athos shook himself at the abrupt change of subject. “Ah, yes. Her majesty asked if I could recommend a woman of good character and sense who might be a kind companion, and Constance was naturally the first I thought of. I suggested her majesty spoke to d’Artagnan, which I believe she did.”

“Yes, and also to me. I think she’ll offer Constance a position after the baby is born.”

“Constance will fill that role very well.”

“Pity her husband is....”

They shared a grimace. “Yes, unfortunately,” Athos agreed.

“Can’t be helped. Anyway, you have a mission. Good luck.”

The four of them left Paris on a fine late spring morning, the exhilaration of a fast ride enhanced by leaving Paris and the stench of Richelieu’s obsequies behind them. For the first time in months, Aramis’s expression was carefree, and his good mood lifted the others. Athos hoped this mission would distract his friend from the worry over the queen’s confinement, sure to begin any day now.

“Who is this fellow we are to meet?” d’Artagnan asked Athos as they made camp for the night.

“I have no idea. A spy, that’s all I know.”

“Don’t trust spies,” Porthos muttered.

“A necessary evil, and a dangerous profession,” Aramis said. “Only the brave dare follow it.”

“Yeah, but if you can deceive one side, you can deceive the other. How can you know where their loyalty lies? I mean, _really_ lies?”

“The king trusts him, and as we know, the king is infallible,” Athos said, raising a snort from d’Artagnan and a rueful smile from Aramis.

“But does the king even know who he is?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Unlikely. He’s one of the cardinal’s men, I suspect.”

The other three looked at each other and a knowing “Ah,” left every mouth. Porthos had the right of it, of course. Who could really trust a man who was so good at deception, and especially one with flexible enough morals to suit the late, unlamented cardinal?

When they finally encountered their contact, every reservation Athos had before was confirmed, and more beside. The _comte de Rochefort_ had always put Athos’s hackles up, and he had grown no more pleasant or moral in the five years in which he had been a Spanish captive. When the man had dared to steal Roger on top of his multiple crimes of murder, it had been a positive pleasure to punch that supercilious jaw, and Athos cared not who knew it.

By the time the creature was delivered to the garrison, Athos’s teeth ached from grinding them, and his right calf twitched continuously with the urge to kick Rochefort in the arse. However, the news the man bore—the capture of General de Foix by the Spanish—was exactly as important as he claimed, so Athos held his temper in check so that plans for rescuing de Foix could be made.

Unfortunately, in addition to seeking the king’s permission to carry out this mission, there was more going on at the palace than Athos had realised. The queen had been safely delivered of the much-desired heir, and Constance had already been appointed her new lady-in-waiting. That meant that Athos had to keep two companions, hearts aching from frustrated desire, out of trouble, and he only barely managed it with pure luck in Aramis’s case. Deflecting the pompous Monsieur Bonacieux from his wife so d’Artagnan could speak to her was simple enough, but it meant Aramis slipped the leash and nearly got himself arrested by confronting the dauphin’s governess, newborn babe in arms.

Aramis’s charm let him escape more severe censure than the governess's mild reprimand, but Athos made sure his friend knew what he had risked. “He can never be your son, unless you confess to an act of treason and take the queen down with you.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You’re right. I only know what it is like to be in the king’s situation.”

Aramis straightened and stared at him. Athos refused to give in or apologise. “I did not set out to...to cuckold anyone.”

“And yet you did. You must forget it, forget who you think the boy is, forget her. Please, brother. For your safety, for hers. And for ours.”

Aramis drew in a long breath. “I’ll do my very best, Athos.”

“Then I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he lied.

“You left d’Artagnan with Constance.”

Athos contemplated ignoring the implied question, but given Aramis’s own vulnerable emotions, felt he should respond with honesty of his own. “He still loves her, and she him. I see no future in it, but the heart cannot be ruled so easily, as you know. I only wish for him not to cause a scandal, or hurt her. Or himself.”

“To love two people at once is as painful as loving someone who loves two people at once. You’re very calm about it.”

“Because throwing a tantrum would be so useful.”

Aramis laughed a little. “There is that. Can you work with Rochefort?”

“I would work with the devil himself for the sake of France—and for the captain. You saw his reaction to the news. It would be a vicious blow to lose a friend of that kind.”

“Then we must ensure he does not. Shall we find our brothers and make certain they know not to accidentally kill our newest comrade until after the rescue?”

They found d’Artagnan with Porthos in the stables. “Captain said to go on ahead,” Porthos said. “We leave tomorrow, first light.”

“Let’s hope _monsieur le comte_ finishes preening for his majesty in time to actually assist making our plans,” Aramis said.

Athos ignored the banter, searching d’Artagnan’s face. His lover was silent, his eyes not quite meeting Athos’s. Or anyone’s, really. “Mount up,” Athos said, but as the others went to their horses, he drew d’Artagnan aside. “Did it not go well?”

“She told me off for interfering, and said Bonacieux will only hate us more now. She told me to leave her alone. I recommended her because I wanted to help her, Athos!”

“Calm yourself and lower your voice,” Athos said, putting command into his tone. “In time she may come to see that you have helped her. But if you only did so to weaken her marriage further—”

D’Artagnan’s head lifted. “I did it because she’s the best woman I know and the queen wanted someone she could trust. Constance is perfect for this position.”

“And you wanted to lessen her dependence on her husband.”

D’Artagnan nodded, staring at the ground. “He treats her as if she’s an ignorant, silly girl. She’s not! She’s brave, clever, loyal, everything he can never be.”

“Yes, she is. But recall what Porthos said about spies. If a spouse is faithless to one partner, might they not be faithless to another? Would you have her be any less honourable than you are?”

D’Artagnan stepped back, his eyes filling. “No,” he whispered.

“Then leave it be for now. You have no idea what the fates plan, and who knows what may happen to the two of them? Or to you. Be her friend, d’Artagnan. Not a suitor. She needs one more than the other.”

“I don’t know how you can counsel me so calmly, when she is your rival.”

Now was not the time for honesty. “She is not, and never will be. She is a dear friend to us both. Now, mount up. We have a war hero to rescue.”

****************

For someone allegedly talented as a spy, Rochefort’s real skill apparently lay in effortlessly antagonising those he most needed to assist him in his endeavours. Athos watched the man insult and belittle each of his comrades in particular, and the Musketeers in general, and thus was entirely sincere in his offer to arrange an accident to befall him on the road. Captain Treville was equally sincere in his desire to accept the offer, even if it was not—immediately—practical.

But even d’Artagnan, so proud and quick to defend his own and his brothers’ honour, didn’t waste breath complaining about the irritating man. After a year and a half working for the king and the cardinal, d’Artagnan was almost as inured to petty jabs from petty men as Treville himself. His only complaint was that he and Athos would have to be unusually discreet while sleeping under the stars, normally a time they might otherwise enjoy a little carefree intimacy. “Let’s not make a habit of taking him on our missions.”

“Let’s not,” Athos said, his upper lip twitching with hidden amusement—hidden from all but his lover, that was.

Rochefort had little to recommend himself as a companion, but the Musketeers, conscious of the honour of their regiment and the inferiority of their opponent, largely ignored his barbs while riding, and shared mutual eye-rolls behind his back whenever they needed to react at all. The lack of response seemed to temper the man’s venom, and as they sat eating their supper by the campfire, he even unbent to share a little of what he had experienced in Spanish hands. For the first time, and most unexpectedly, Athos felt an impulse of sympathy for what the man had endured. It was not a welcome impulse, because he despised Rochefort quite thoroughly, but it existed nonetheless.

However it was not a long-lived sentiment. When Athos announced that he and d’Artagnan would take the first watch as usual, Aramis and Porthos the second, Rochefort sneered. “Don’t trust me to carry out such a simple task, Musketeer?”

Athos kept his temper—again— and smiled politely. “Not at all. I merely thought that since we are the soldiers and you a civilian, we would do the guarding.”

“ _I_ will take the first watch.”

“As you wish. Wake d’Artagnan and me in three hours. Make sure you keep the fire going,” he added, knowing it would annoy the man.

Athos disliked broken sleep but would rather suffer it than order anyone else to do it. “You don’t have to share the shift with me,” he murmured to d’Artagnan under the cover of the blankets. “Not when it will be short.”

“And lie here alone with him? Not on your life.” His long fingers stole across the small gap and found Athos’s. “Was he always like this?”

“Oh, yes. He embodies the worst attitudes of the nobility, and being landless only makes him sour with it. He’s hardly unusual for our class, I’m fully aware.”

“Then I’m glad you are an exception, my lord.”

“Quiet, boy,” Athos said, knowing d’Artagnan was grinning to himself. “Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a trying day.”

“I’d rather face the Spanish than what passes for conversation from Rochefort.”

“Indeed.”

He woke from a firm shake of his shoulder, and found d’Artagnan above him. “Tend the fire? Rochefort needs to piss. I’ll walk with him.”

Athos grunted in agreement, and the other two were out of the reach of the firelight by the time Athos crouched over the flames, carefully feeding it sticks to keep it high and bright enough to keep wolves away. Still sleepy, he wasn’t keeping as close a watch as he ought to have done, so didn’t notice d’Artagnan’s return until he heard his lover’s quiet, cold, angry voice.

“You will withdraw that remark, _monsieur_.”

Athos turned and saw d’Artagnan holding a sword at arm’s length, the tip pointed at Rochefort’s throat. “D’Artagnan.”

His lover didn’t turn. “ _Monsieur le comte_ will withdraw his slander, Athos, or I will seek satisfaction.”

“D’Artagnan!” Athos got to his feet and came to d’Artagnan’s side. “What in God’s name is going on?” Rochefort, without his habitual sneer, watched the two of them warily.

“The monsieur was kind enough to insinuate that our comrades are involved in some unnatural manner because they share blankets.” The sword moved a little closer to Rochefort’s throat, skimming the skin. “I demand that he withdraw this dishonourable accusation.”

Athos nearly sighed with frustration. Of course d’Artagnan was right to challenge him. But of all the things to confront Rochefort over, of all the places. “Rochefort?”

“I...apologise. I misspoke.”

D’Artagnan lowered his sword and slammed it back into his scabbard. “Do not do so again.” He jerked his chin towards the bedrolls, and watched until Rochefort turned and took his place on them without another word. Then he stalked back to the fire and went down on his hunkers, staring into the flames, and not looking up as Athos joined him.

“Go on,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“What?”

“Go on, tell me off for that.”

“Why should I? I would have done the same.”

D’Artagnan continued to stare at the fire. Athos realised this would not be a brief conversation, and made himself comfortable, drawing his cloak around his shoulders. “I suppose that makes me a hypocrite,” d’Artagnan whispered after a long silence. “For I don’t believe it’s wrong.”

“The slander lay in a public accusation of a capital offence without the slightest evidence. His lies could send our brothers to the gallows if he repeated it elsewhere. You were right to challenge him.”

“And if he says the same about us?”

“The others would respond as you did. Rochefort has been careless with our honour several times this day. The Musketeers have many enemies. He has no right to give them succour.” He leaned closer. “However, it would be politic to ignore his barbs in future, at least until we have de Foix.”

“Even if he says—”

“Even if. The mission is everything, d’Artagnan. Rochefort is only important so far as he helps it succeed.”

“You’re not angry?”

“No.” Athos kept his voice low. “I might even admit to being a little proud of you.”

D’Artagnan looked at him and grinned, saying nothing. There was no need to.

They broke camp at first light, and at the position nominated by Rochefort an hour later. Athos ordered d’Artagnan to undertake reconnaissance at the rear of the keep while the others approached from the front, and effect a rescue alone if the others did not rendezvous with him. Athos could not stop his stomach clenching in worry for his young lover as he rode away. He had the highest faith in d’Artagnan’s abilities, but everything about this mission set him on edge, the more so with every passing hour.

But he said nothing of his concerns, and turned his horse. “Let’s go.”

The sense of wrongness intensified when they came across Spanish soldiers apparently on a routine patrol. Rochefort’s behaviour was distinctly odd, definitely worrying, and indicating either very poor reflexes or a carelessness for the safety of his comrades. The man had been out of the field a long time, true, but his delay in shooting Athos’s attacker could have been fatal. Athos wished he had sent Rochefort ahead, not d’Artagnan, but the plan had been agreed ahead of time.

At least being able to switch clothes and dress as Spaniards was fortuitous, and with Aramis’s skill in the language, they gained entrance to the castle without difficulty. There they found d’Artagnan, de Foix and a hitherto unmentioned sister all alive, with Governor Alvarez secured. D’Artagnan’s sarcastic greeting did nothing to cover his relief at seeing them. Athos’s gut also unclenched to know his lover had survived.

But they were not clear yet by any means. Lucie de Foix was not happy with d’Artagnan, but not as unhappy as Athos was with Rochefort for not mentioning her existence. It was an unaccountable and unforgiveable lapse, given how much it could complicate matters. The general, naturally, refused to leave without her, and so there was no thought of leaving her behind—at least not in the minds of the Musketeers.

Their escape was more difficult and dangerous than any in Athos’s memory, and ended regrettably with the general being shot. Despite Aramis’s care and reassuring words, there was little hope for de Foix. Athos had seen gut shots too many times to believe the man had any chance of survival. Still, they had rescued him from the Spanish, his sister was safe, and they had a valuable hostage in Governor Alvarez, so the mission had succeeded. And Rochefort had saved Athos’s life, for which Athos felt compelled to thank him, how many other misgivings he had about his conduct that day.

They returned to where they had left their uniforms. The four Musketeers were glad to change back into their usual clothes, and Lucie to have a chance to rest and see to her brother’s condition—which, unfortunately, was no better. Athos had turned his back for no more than a few moments when he heard a gunshot. He and the others ran to see what had happened, and discovered Rochefort had shot Alvarez who had tried to escape. Athos could have shaken Rochefort for such a pointless killing. Alvarez was no danger to them even if he had escaped, since they were now in France, and now his potential as a hostage—or at least a rebuke to the Spanish—was lost.

But there was no point rebuking the man, since the deed was done. They had to get de Foix back to Paris so he could at least die among his friends, and give the king the news. Athos counted it a victory to be able to hand the general over to his old friend, Treville, so the two could have some time together before he died.

He also counted it a victory that the Musketeers managed to school their features to _almost_ hide their irritation at Rochefort claiming all the glory and praise for the mission’s successful end, while escaping any censure for his failings. Treville knew the truth of it, and privately had congratulated and commiserated with them in equal measure.

In the tavern that evening, Athos’s companions gave full vent to their feelings. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us about Lucie, and that he was going to leave her behind,” d’Artagnan fumed. He and Lucie had become friendlier than her hearty slap to him at the castle would have predicted.

“A callous act indeed,” Aramis said. “And a foolish one. What decent man would abandon his sister?”

“Rochefort would, in a heartbeat,” Porthos said. “He’d gut his own mother to win favour with the king, if you ask me.”

“He’s far too easy with other people’s lives in every respect,” Aramis said. “Never trust a man for whom death is the first solution.” Athos gave him a look. “He has no conscience at all, my friend.”

“A perfect tool for the cardinal.”

“I wonder,” Aramis replied, but did not elaborate.

“The cardinal would not have been pleased by Alvarez’s death, I suspect,” Athos said.

“Yeah, I want to know how he got free,” Porthos said. “Rochefort was guarding him, so how did he untie his hands and all?”

“Rochefort didn’t shout for him to stop either,” d’Artagnan noted. “Fishy.”

Athos agreed, but chose not to speculate in public. “I suspect we will find it profitable to trust him no further than we can throw him.”

“I can throw him pretty far,” Porthos said, “but I ain’t gonna trust him at all.”

“His majesty doesn’t agree,” d’Artagnan said. “Unfortunately.”

“It is our duty to protect him even from bad counsellors.”

Aramis caught his eye. “At least, protect the queen and the dauphin from them.”

“Indeed.”

In one of their precious private moments, Athos warned d’Artagnan they would need to be even more discreet, since Rochefort would use any scurrilous gossip to ruin their reputation in front of the king. D’Artagnan had solemnly agreed, which was why Athos was a little irritated to hear his lover and Constance having a loud and angry discussion in the garrison courtyard, more than close enough for him to hear every bitter word.

Athos stood at his doorway and waited for d’Artagnan to notice him, then beckoned him over and took him into his room.

“You heard.”

“D’Artagnan, his majesty’s peacocks heard. If you want to talk to Constance about the state of your relationship, I would not advise the garrison as the place to hold the conversation.”

“She has no courage, Athos! She could have left him—”

Athos frowned. “I believe Constance already explained in intricate detail why she did not, so I won’t repeat what she said. Are you honestly accusing Constance of cowardice? _Constance_? Truly?”

He glared at d’Artagnan until his lover dropped his gaze. “Maybe that was unkind.”

“It was cowardly of you.” D’Artagnan’s head came up. “You publicly accused a good, brave, honest woman of something that if she had been a man with a sword at his side, would entitle her to challenge you to a duel. If I were not your lover, I would do so on her behalf. I tell you this, Charles, son of Alexandre d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, I am ashamed of you right now. You will apologise.”

“I’ll go—”

“No. In writing. I’ll deliver it, with my own apologies for not stopping you. If you’re lucky, and Constance a kinder person than I am, she may forgive you in time for your behaviour. But you have not acted with honour this day. Go, and don’t return without a letter for her.”

D’Artagnan looked about to speak, but lowered his head and slunk out of Athos’s room. Athos sighed. He had never had to reproach Aramis or Porthos for such a thing, for all their misadventures with the female sex. D’Artagnan’s pride was too often dismissive of that of others.

D’Artagnan delivered the letter to Athos’s room later, and apologised to him. He made no attempt to stay, which in the circumstances was perceptive of him. Athos would forgive d’Artagnan easily enough, but the boy needed to learn discretion, not to mention charity.

When they were next called to the palace, Athos took the first opportunity he could to call on the queen and beg her indulgence in allowing Constance a few moments’ privacy to speak to him. Her majesty readily agreed, but Constance followed him with a wary expression. “D’Artagnan gave this to me to give to you, _madame_. With it, I offer my apology for his behaviour yesterday.” Athos bowed. “It was unbecoming of a Musketeer, let alone for someone who claims to hold you in regard.”

She took the letter but didn’t open it. “Why you, Athos?”

“Constance?”

“Why did he send you?”

“He didn’t. I insisted on bringing it myself.”

“Why?”

Athos stared in confusion. “I thought that should be obvious. As his superior officer and mentor, his behaviour reflects on me as well as on himself.”

“But you....” She bit her lip. “I understood that you and he were _special_ friends.”

Alarm replaced confusion. “How did you come to that understanding? Did someone say something to you?”

“No! Not at all, I just...I have eyes, Athos. It’s not just how he looks at you, but how you look at him. Am I wrong? I’m so sorry—”

Athos held up his hand. “You are not wrong. But you must understand how dangerous it is to speak of this.”

“I do know, and I haven’t, not to anyone else. But if this is true, why would you put yourself in this position?”

“Because I hold you in the highest regard as a woman and a friend, and nothing I feel for d’Artagnan changes that. He had no business speaking to you in the manner he did, and I made it clear to him that he had shamed himself. My apologies if my...response offends.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She opened the letter. “You made him write this?”

“I demanded he apologise, and he agreed immediately. He’s quick to anger, but also quick to realise when he has hurt someone. I merely reinforced his awareness that he had insulted you quite unfairly.”

She read the letter. “It’s very nice,” she said, laying it aside. “But he’ll never understand.”

“I fear not. I’ve spoken to him many times on the matter but he is a little too fond of Aramis’s view of romantic entanglements.”

She shook her head, smiling ruefully. “It’s so simple for men. How are you, Athos? Doesn’t this bother you, that he pines for me?”

“No, it does not. Were you free, I would tell him to go to you in a heartbeat. I can only ever be second-best, however much he insists I’m not.”

“You aren’t!”

Athos gritted his teeth as she put her hand over her mouth, conscious too late that she was making a scene. “I’m content. You don’t need to concern yourself.”

“Friends care about each other. You deserve to be happy.”

“I am.”

“Hmmm.” She stood. “I should go back. Thank you for bringing this. Tell him I expect him to behave better next time.”

“Oh, I will. So do I.”

“That’ll work.” She kissed his cheek. “You’re second-best to no one, Athos, and I won’t hear otherwise.”

He bowed. “Good day, _madame_.”

She smiled and left. He took a moment to compose his expression and his feelings, then went in search of his brothers. D’Artagnan asked a voiceless question with his eyes, and Athos nodded. Nothing more needed to be said, for now.

As dusk fell, and the four of them were taking it easy, cleaning weapons, before Serge called them to supper, a priest came to call on Aramis, and asked him to accompany him. Clearly perplexed, Aramis excused himself to “answer a summons from the cardinal”, and Athos decided to go with him, on the principle that a combination of Aramis and any cardinal was never a good thing. Neither of them had any reason to expect a threat, not from a priest.

But a threat did come, and from a priest, albeit a dead one. Cardinal Richelieu had one last gambit to play, even from beyond the grave. In his distress and anger over the revelation that Adele Bessette had been murdered for love of him, Aramis came close to killing the smug messenger of God. Athos could not allow him to, of course, though he gladly threw the man out to allow Aramis privacy to deal with this blow—and the explicit threat.

Aramis’s fears were immediately for his son. “What if the cardinal knew?”

Athos could offer no comfort. “All the more reason to stay away from the queen and the dauphin.”

Aramis knew this was good advice, and Athos was sure he meant to abide by it...until the next time either the queen or the child were under threat, and his friend’s heart would overrule his head, as it did every time. But there was no point berating a grieving man, nor in belabouring a point made so many times before. Athos could only support Aramis, let him talk, and hope against hope that he would keep his emotions in check, or at least, vent them discreetly.

They returned to the garrison and found d’Artagnan and Porthos in the mess. Aramis was too distraught to talk about what had happened, so Athos explained. “That murdering bastard,” Porthos said.

“To kill a woman just because of who she loved,” d’Artagnan agreed.

“The world is ruled by men, and women are too often pawns in their games,” Athos said, looking at his lover. D’Artagnan lowered his eyes. The point was taken, he hoped.

“So what secrets did he know?” Porthos asked.

“Probably nothing,” Athos said. There was nothing to indicate the cardinal had known for sure about Aramis and the queen, and if he only had suspicions, they could not have been strong ones. “It was just a parting gift from a loathsome, vindictive man who couldn’t beat us fairly.”

“Makes me want to piss on his tomb.”

“I suspect there’s already a queue,” d’Artagnan said.

Aramis said nothing, but after the meal, he left the garrison. Athos followed, and found he was again headed to one of the churches he favoured. This time Athos made no attempt to conceal the fact he had gone after him, joining him in the pew where Aramis knelt, holding his rosary. “I’m sorry, old friend.”

“She was a good woman, a brave one. I loved her, Athos. Not as well as she deserved, and not enough to protect her.”

“She knew the risk she took. You didn’t force her.”

Aramis bowed his head. “That...is no consolation. I’ll be here a while.”

“Then I’ll wait with you, however long you wish to stay.”

Aramis turned his head to look at him. “Thank you.”

Athos nodded, and settled in to wait while Aramis prayed, keeping vigil. The news, so vindictively delivered, had been a shock, but in the end, only revealed the cardinal’s weakness. It was a pathetic and pointless strike. Athos wasn’t worried about the dead man’s reach. He was more concerned about with the living advisors to the king, and the king himself. The monarch had a worrying lack of judgement which put himself and his guards at more risk than anything a dead Richelieu or a live Rochefort could conceive.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’re really going to do this?” d’Artagnan muttered to Athos as they waited for the king to change clothes.

“Of course, unless you want to explain to his majesty why he can’t.”

“It’s suicidal.”

“It’s his expressed wish. And the king is infallible, d’Artagnan. Do not forget that.” However elastic the definition of infallibility had to become to accommodate his majesty’s judgement.

No one but the king thought this was a good idea, of course. All they could do was watch over him, limit his activities to one or two taverns, and hope to escape with him unscathed. Aramis begged off, and Athos allowed it, only wishing he could do the same. For the first hour or so, it went well, even if Porthos was decidedly unimpressed by the entire exercise. Athos kept his big friend under control and the tavern under surveillance, while d’Artagnan—the king’s champion, after all—kept a closer watch on his majesty himself. If the king had not been so good at cards—or had had worse luck—they would have finished the evening successfully.

Unfortunately, this was not the case, and Athos and Porthos had to manage the erupting brawl while d’Artagnan rushed the king to safety. But when Athos and Porthos went out to the alley behind the tavern to find them, there was no sign of his majesty or his guardian, nor did searching reveal them.

Treville was understandably angry and worried, but no more than Athos and Porthos. The queen, egged on by Rochefort’s unhelpful comments, was furious and frightened at the prospect of her husband being lost before their son was even christened.

Athos did not need the urging of his captain or the scolding of his queen to work like fury to find the missing men. Returning to the tavern made it clear that the establishment was not new to the business of abduction, and with the charm and diplomacy for which Aramis and Porthos were famous, the innkeeper’s role was quickly established. More enquiries led them to an old villain, Sebastien Lemaitre, practicing his old criminal behaviour, or at least, his brother doing so in his stead, taking men unawares from the streets of Paris and selling them as galley slaves.

Once they had deduced the most probable destination of Lemaitre’s captives, and the likely route, all that remained was the hunt. They had to catch up with Lemaitre and his prisoners before they reached Honfleur, which gave them a bare day to rescue the king. And d’Artagnan. In his heart, Athos admitted d’Artagnan may already be dead, either in the defence of his majesty or someone else. He hoped d’Artagnan had learned enough by now not to provoke the slavers, but it was likely the king would do so, and d’Artagnan’s emotions were still not entirely under his rule.

But Athos couldn’t lose himself in sorrow, not until the mission was complete. When the king was back, and if d’Artagnan had died, he could mourn. Until then, only the king’s return mattered to anyone but Athos himself.

They reached Rouen and discovered Lemaitre had not yet brought his prisoners to the port. Athos decided not to wait for the slaver but to engage him at his camp. He despaired quietly when they found no sign of men or camp by dawn, and as each hour passed his fear that the king and d’Artagnan were lost forever grew apace.

But then, a stroke of luck—Bruno Lemaitre launched an ambush, badly underestimating his quarry. Lemaitre’s men were dispatched with ease, and when Bruno himself ran into a bear trap, extracting him and the whereabouts of his brother was child’s play.

They rode hard to catch up with Sebastien Lemaitre, but to Athos’s unutterable relief, discovered d’Artagnan and the king had managed to rescue themselves. Athos’s lover was exhausted and filthy, but had never looked more handsome to Athos’s eyes. So lost was he in gratitude that when a woman stepped out from behind a bush, introduced by the king as their saviour, he did not immediately realise who it was. Then he did.

 _Anne_.

“We owe this lady our lives,” the king announced, beaming as if he’d managed some amazing magic trick.

D’Artagnan was rather less grateful. “Your Majesty, she was part of the criminal band that kidnapped you in the first place. She should be held for questioning.”

Athos was too overcome with shock at seeing _Anne_ to comment, but Aramis spoke up for common sense. “With respect, Your Majesty, we don't know what other crimes she's committed.”

But the king wasn’t bothered, granting Anne a pardon on the spot. On the one hand, Athos was glad it hadn’t come down to him to decide. On the other, what in the name of the bleeding Christ was she doing _here_?

While Anne was playacting to her new sponsor, Athos had a couple of moments to speak to d’Artagnan in private. “Did she really save your life?” he asked. He didn’t like the beaten down look in d’Artagnan’s eyes.

“For her own reasons, but, yes.”

Then Athos owed her that, at least. He started to ask d’Artagnan how he was, but Lemaitre’s men were suddenly upon them, and they had to get the king to safety. Athos ordered d’Artagnan and Porthos to take his majesty back to Paris while he and Aramis provided cover. d’Artagnan refused, and there was no time to argue. The king convinced Bruno Lemaitre to fight with them with a promise of a pardon, and that left four to take the slavers on. D’Artagnan cut Lemaitre’s bonds and gave him a pistol, and the four men took positions to prevent the slavers going after Porthos, Anne, and the king. In very little time those who had not been killed, fled, with the exception of the apparent leader of the group whom d’Artagnan insisted on taking on himself.

Athos neither knew nor cared why. All that mattered was that his bruised, battered and entirely alive lover wanted this, and he had earned it tenfold. The slaver drew his sword. D’Artagnan approached Athos, who stood still, letting d’Artagnan decide what he wanted for this fight—sword, knife, pistol, he cared not, for they were all his lover’s disposal—but all d’Artagnan wanted was Athos’s scarf. Athos had absolutely no idea what he planned to do with it, but nothing would persuade him to question d’Artagnan’s intentions, not with that dead, sad expression on his face.

He had a moment’s fear for his lover when d’Artagnan handed his pistol over to Aramis, winding Athos’s scarf around his hand. But still he refused to intervene. D’Artagnan deserved his trust.

The fight was brief, brutal and effective. The horseman charged with his sword drawn. D’Artagnan grabbed his sword with his scarf-wrapped hand, and pulled the man off his horse, taking his weapon in the same move, and dispatching him in a single impaling stroke. As he walked away from the corpse, D’Artagnan spat something too quietly for Athos to hear what he said, and unwound the scarf from his hand as he approached the three of them.

“My thanks,” he said, handing the scarf back to Athos.

“You’re welcome,” Athos replied. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”

Athos gave him a disbelieving look. “Aramis, if you would?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes but submitted to a quick examination by his friend, who pronounced, “Those wrists need cleaning and binding, but other than that and a few nasty bruises, he’s fine. Nothing that a solid night’s sleep wouldn't solve.”

“We have no time to rest, unfortunately, but you can take care of his wrists before we go. D’Artagnan, you’ll ride with me. Aramis, you guard this man until we reach Paris.”

It was for purely selfish reasons that Athos insisted d’Artagnan ride with him. Tremors shook his lover’s body as he held d’Artagnan close to him. There was more than tiredness in play. “Do you wish to talk?”

“Not now,” d’Artagnan said. “Athos, what about Anne? What’s she doing here?”

“Nothing benign, I’m sure.” She could ruin both of them, and her sudden attachment to the king put all the Inseparables in danger. But he couldn’t bring himself to care right now, because d’Artagnan was safe, and so was the king.

D’Artagnan gained a little uneasy rest, gripped in Athos’s arms as they rode, but not enough to ease the shadows under his eyes or the sadness that dimmed his usual smile. They arrived in Paris with just enough time to grab d’Artagnan’s cloak and for him to perform the swiftest of ablutions, before attending the king and following him to the palace chapel for the dauphin’s christening.

And after all that....

Hours later, Athos was still resisting the urge to go to his majesty and challenge him to a duel. Even after all these years watching a pampered, selfish and insensitive monarch exercise his royal privilege in the most indulgent of ways, Athos was still shocked to his core by the way the king thought to reward d’Artagnan—a man still clearly tired and depressed after the whole ordeal—with an execution, perverting every concept of honour, and grossly insulting d’Artagnan in the process.

As he left the palace, d’Artagnan trembled with rage and grief. Athos caught Treville’s eyes, and his captain nodded, walking on with the others while Athos held d’Artagnan back.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said.

“You did nothing! It’s the ki—”

Athos shook him by the shoulder. “Take care, my friend,” he said quietly. “You have a right to be angry, but it’s still treason to insult the king.”

“You don’t _understand_. You didn’t meet Pepin. An innocent man, a father, gave his life to save the king, and his majesty doesn’t spare a thought for him. And another man took him at his word and now he’s _dead_.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, but what’s done is done.”

“You’re wrong. I want to help Pepin’s widow. Her husband died a hero. I have my pay. She can have it. All of it.”

“Wait. We can do more than that.”

Athos left him slumped against a wall, and caught up with the captain. “Sir, there is something left undone. A man who gave his life to save the king, a civilian. He left a widow. D’Artagnan wants to help her. It occurs to me that his majesty would want this, when he uh, is less....”

Treville held up his hand. “Quite. We can’t let his majesty’s honour suffer the stain of ingratitude.” Porthos snorted and Aramis rolled his eyes, but the captain ignored their scepticism. “Shall we?”

Athos had one more thing to mention. “Sir, d’Artagnan is distressed. I beg your indulgence for any outbursts he may make in the next day or so.”

Treville stared at him. “What aren’t you telling me, Athos?”

“What is he not telling all of us, you mean. He needs time to adjust.”

The captain pursed his lips. “Very well. Just keep him from being too outrageous.”

“As you wish. Thank you.”

Porthos and Aramis nodded. All for one, indeed.

After the sad, and sadly necessary, meeting with the widow and her child, none of them were in a mood to talk, least of all d’Artagnan, who was unsuccessfully trying to keep tears from falling as they walked together backed to the garrison.

Athos glanced at Aramis as they walked into the courtyard, and his friend took his cue. “Captain, I recommend d’Artagnan is allowed twelve hours at least of uninterrupted rest to recuperate. Unfortunately, the barracks are perhaps a little noisy....”

“He can stay in my room,” Athos said. “I can keep an eye on him there.”

The captain nodded, his expression giving nothing of his thoughts away. “Very well. D’Artagnan, take tomorrow off. Athos, you stay at the garrison, make sure no harm comes to him.”

“Sir, I can—”

Athos stepped in front of his lover to stop him talking himself out of a well-earned rest. “Of course, sir. Aramis, perhaps you can check those wrist bandages and give him a more thorough examination.”

“I’m right here—”

Aramis ignored d’Artagnan’s objection. “Yes, I should do that. Captain, with your permission?”

“Of course. Get some sleep, the lot of you. Dismissed.”

Treville walked off. Porthos clapped Aramis’s shoulder. “See you in the mess,” he said and walked away.

“What just happened?” d’Artagnan asked, his expression tired and confused.

“A small enough reward for valiant and honourable conduct as a Musketeer,” Athos said, putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Infirmary first, then my room.”

“Athos?”

Athos looked into d’Artagnan’s lost, sad brown eyes. “Let us do for you what you deserve and need,” he said quietly. “Because some of us do appreciate you.”

“D’Artagnan, you can let go now,” Aramis said. “You’re back among your friends, whatever happened out there.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, then his eyes filled with tears. He turned away, ashamed.

“I’ll fetch a few things and come to you,” Aramis murmured. Athos nodded, then guided d’Artagnan to his room, not the infirmary. There was no need to expose his misery to the rest of the garrison.

Behind a closed door, Athos could finally do what he’d wanted to do since he’d found d’Artagnan alive, and hold him tightly to him, trying to send all the love and worry and pride he felt through his touch. “I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“Why on earth do you keep apologising to me? You have done very well. Better than anyone, certainly the king, has a right to demand.”

D’Artagnan went silent. Athos drew him over to his bed and made him sit, stripping his doublet from him and helping him off with his boots.

“Tell me about Pepin.”

“He...he was just an ordinary man, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t even think the king was a good man. Not that he knew who was in front of him, but he thought the king was...everything he turned out to be. Yet he still helped him escape. He saved his life and he died. He died bravely, and I lived by running away. He had a little girl, a wife, everything to live for. It should have been me, not him.”

The tears d’Artagnan had tried to hold back, fell without hindrance now. Athos rested his cheek on d’Artagnan’s head, and let him weep. “Life, as you know by now, is rarely fair.”

“I know, but...the king...he’s...he’s not worthy of that sacrifice. Men die every day for him and look what he does! He can’t even keep his word. He has no honour at all.”

“Louis de Bourbon is just a man same as you or me,” Athos said. “But the _king of France_ rules by the grace of God. Somehow we have to ignore the nature of the man while we protect the king with our lives.”

“Then he lets Milady get away with her crimes when she’s truly wicked, while Bruno was just stupid and weak, and he’s slaughtered like an animal.”

“Bruno was a traitor to the crown and involved in a ghastly trade, d’Artagnan.” He tilted d’Artagnan’s head up to look into his miserable eyes. “Anne did save your life, for which I will forever be grateful.”

“Only to get in with the king.”

“She could have let you die and achieved the same aim. After all, you tried to expose her even though she had saved you. A more callous woman might have quietly killed you to preserve her secret.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe she’s as saintly as you think.”

“Far from saintly.” A knock at the door. “That’ll be Aramis. Take off your shirt, and spare me the usual ‘I’m fine’ lies, please. I’m too tired, and so are you.”

D’Artagnan gave him a faint smile, the first since his return, then began to unlace his shirt. Athos let Aramis in. “And how’s our patient?” Aramis said, smiling at them both.

“Tired and lacking patience.”

“Not surprising. Ah, let’s see you properly now.”

Athos kept back while Aramis probed the many bruises, the knots on d’Artagnan’s skull, the cut lip and other physical insults. The wrists were the worst of it though. Aramis bade Athos help d’Artagnan to wash, then to reapply one of his patent slaves and replace the bandages with the clean ones he had brought with him. “Eat and sleep, then eat again.”

“Not hungry,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“I’m sure, but it’ll help you feel more grounded in reality. I imagine you’re floating a little now? Disoriented by events?”

D’Artagnan stared up at him. “A little.”

“Then a return to your routine as soon as possible will help. Now I know I leave you in good hands, so sleep well, my young friend. His majesty may not appreciate you, but we do. Don’t we, Athos?”

“Assuredly,” Athos said with a smile.

“Good. Ah, Athos, about Milady de Winter....”

“Later, my friend. She’ll keep.”

Aramis gave him a worried look. “She could ruin you.”

“But then how can she manipulate me again if I’ve gone to the gallows? There’s no profit in me dead, after all. Thank you, Aramis. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Aramis tipped his hat and closed the door quietly behind him.

“You really think she won’t cause you trouble?” d’Artagnan said.

“Oh, she certainly will,” Athos said. “But I have more important matters to think about right now.” He kissed d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Strip, and I’ll bring you hot water and a change of clothes.”

“You shouldn’t be waiting on me.”

“Just this once. I need to.”

D’Artagnan tilted his head. “You were really worried.”

“Oh, not at all. My lovers are routinely taken prisoner in the company of the king of France to be sold as galley slaves to the Spanish.”

“Right.” D’Artagnan gave him a weak smile. “Sounds pretty bad when you put it like that.”

“The next time the king wants to see how the common people live, I’ll suggest he takes a carriage ride with the doors closed. That’s close enough.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “Yes, it is.”


	3. Chapter 3

With the resilience of youth, Athos’s lover bounced back quickly from the heartache of Pepin’s death and the king’s appalling selfishness, though a shadow remained behind d’Artagnan’s smile when he wasn’t on show for the royal family or the captain. Athos was grateful for d’Artagnan’s strength because he had all too many things to worry about, all at the same time. Athos had become aware that Aramis was courting one of the ladies in waiting, and thought it a natural, if not particularly wise, reaction to the situation with the queen and her child. When he discovered that Aramis was actually courting the dauphin’s governess, his heart sank. He knew perfectly well what game Aramis was playing now, and judged it likely to end in trouble for Aramis, and very likely, his friends.

But Aramis was resistant to advice, so Athos could only hope the likely outcome did not eventuate—a hope that grew fainter the more Rochefort took a personal and hostile interest in those closest to the royal family. Aramis indignantly reported that even Constance Bonacieux, despite her favoured position, was very nearly executed for trying to save the life of the dauphin, though Aramis failed to realise that this signalled how vulnerable his governess and those using her to get close to the child, were.

Athos listened to d’Artagnan curse Rochefort for what he had nearly done to his beloved Constance, while keep his own deep anxieties about all of them and what proximity to the royal family might bring down on them. It didn’t help that Anne had insinuated herself with the king and become his mistress, a development so concerning that Constance came down to the garrison one night to warn them, and to ask for their help so she could warn the queen. Athos stayed in the shadows as she spoke to d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan pointed out the essential problem with exposing Anne. “All our evidence died with the Cardinal.” He also cautioned that with the king besotted with Anne, Constance ran the risk of doing more harm than good.

“But what if she wants to harm Her Majesty?”

D’Artagnan suggested to Constance that the best thing was to keep an eye on Anne, and that, “In the end, she'll destroy herself without our help.” Not that Athos believed that. Anne wouldn’t go down alone, he was sure of it. But he doubted the queen was the object of Anne’s animosity.

When Constance left, d’Artagnan asked if Athos had heard it all and if he wanted company. The answer was yes to both. Athos ordered more wine and they retreated to a corner to talk. “What do you think?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Anne did not want to harm the queen before, but was forced to it. At least, so she said. I can’t believe even she thinks she would replace the queen should something happen to her.”

“You don’t know who she is any more.”

“No. But I know ambitious people, and I know she’s not stupid. What possible gain is made by harming her majesty? A besotted man, enjoying an illicit relationship that no one can stop, will enjoy the novelty of infidelity as a sauce on his meat. A mistress is amusement. A wife is duty.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “Spoken from the heart.”

“As you say.”

D’Artagnan leaned in. “What about you? She bears you a grudge.”

“Yes, but again, she’s not stupid. I don’t believe Anne is determined to harm me for pure mischief, but that doesn’t mean she won’t do so if it serves some greater end. At the moment, I’m no threat to her. The king has pardoned her crimes. I have no intention of dredging up the past to drag her through it, and she is more powerful than me by far. At least, until the king wearies of her.” Athos swallowed more wine. “I can’t ask her what she intends, and I doubt she would tell me the truth if I did.”

“We should have dropped her in the sea at Le Havre.”

“I should have married her. All this stems from my cowardice.”

“Not so.” D’Artagnan said no more than that, and there was no need to. This was an old argument by now. “I thought her majesty’s position would be secure now she has borne an heir, but it sounds as if she’s under threat even in her own household. Isn’t Rochefort supposed to be a good friend of hers? Why are things worse for her now he’s here?”

“A very good question, my young friend. We must all be watchful, and careful.”

“I’m worried about Constance.”

Athos nodded. “I too. I thought she would be safer in the palace, as you did. Now I wish she was many leagues from here.”

“Maybe she should resign her position.”

Athos looked at his lover. “That die is long cast, d’Artagnan. Now her loyalty to her majesty would not allow her to abandon the queen.”

D’Artagnan groaned. “I just wanted to _help_.”

Athos could have pointed out how much mischief in the world had its origins in this simple wish, but it would have been unkind, and no use. “All we can do is keep an eye out for our friends, and protect them as best we can.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Another?” he asked, pointing at the wine bottle.

“No. We need clear heads, for now. Besides, if I start, the way I feel now, I might never stop.”

D’Artagnan nudged his hip, offering a little comfort. It was nice, but the worries were real, and not even the love of a good, brave companion could erase them. If only it could.

Outside the palace, tensions with Spain, nominally a Catholic ally of the French crown by religion and marriage, rose as King Phillip’s ambitions for French held territory grew. The comte de Rochefort’s establishment as a favourite of the king’s coincided, curiously, with a rise in hostile Spanish activities in Paris which gave Treville concern, and what concerned the captain, also concerned his lieutenant. A Moorish alchemist touting a miracle explosive involved the Musketeers in an intrigue which almost lost Porthos his leg, if not his life, and the death of Tariq Alaman without the cipher to decode his explosive’s recipe, did not elevate the Musketeers in the king’s regard.

Given that Rochefort took every opportunity to sour that regard, this was not a welcome development. Before Rochefort’s arrival, Athos might have depended on the king’s high opinion of his Musketeers to offer them protection. Now, they were exposed to the whims of an increasingly erratic monarch.

So it was essential, both for the Musketeers’ reputation and peace with the Spanish, that a army of common folk led by a charismatic woman called Emilie who claimed to have visions from God demanding the death of King Phillip, was suppressed. By the time the Musketeers were ordered to do what they could to stop her, Spaniards had been murdered in the streets by angry mobs, and the Spanish ambassador had made angry representations to the king. Treville sent Aramis on a covert mission to see what could be done to stop Emilie’s crusade. Meanwhile, the Musketeers were tasked with keeping the skittish Spanish ambassador, Perales, safe from the rampaging mob. He said he had information he wanted to present personally about the palace about a threat whose nature he refused to reveal. But the man couldn’t wait to escape to Spain, and when a note came from Rochefort to say a carriage to take him back to Madrid had been arranged, he insisted on leaving immediately.

He should have been safe, escorted by Athos, d’Artagnan, Porthos and Captain Treville himself, but the promised carriage had been nothing but a lure into a trap. Incredibly, while under close guard, Perales was poisoned and died within minutes as the Musketeers watched on helplessly.

Rochefort was merciless in his scorn, decrying the message to the captain as fake, and the Musketeers as incompetent for letting the man leave the garrison at all. The king was even more scornful and angry, and taking his cue from Rochefort, decided that Emilie was behind the assassination. To Athos’s surprise, the queen protested this was impossible, but his majesty was too angry to be rational about the matter, leaving Treville and the others with the dual task of dealing with Emilie’s citizen’s army and finding Perales’s assassin.

Unbeknownst to them, Aramis had provided the solution to the first problem, by proving that Emilie’s visions were the product of doctored soup, not the deity. It was then a question of bringing the girl to the palace where the influence of the drug could be removed, and she could be presented with the truth. On campaign in Île de Ré, Athos had helped their medic treat one of their officers who had come close to dying from opium addiction, until he was able to break his dependence by enforced abstinence. The process was simple but most unpleasant for patient and carers alike, and it was not a cherished memory. However, with that experience, Athos forced himself to volunteer to help the girl break the drug’s hold on her.

He spent a day and a night with her, holding her as the drug left her body with its claws extended, ripping her apart every inch of the way, like one of the demons she was so obsessed with. When she finally became coherent again, Athos kept watch over her until she slept, and while she slept. Constance joined his vigil a few hours later, silent and calm as the time passed.

Aramis relieved him before dawn, and Athos took himself back to the garrison and his lonely room. He could have done with d’Artagnan’s arms around him, but the lad was asleep in the barracks, and to wake him would have been both unkind and indiscreet. He tried to get some sleep, but his mind was too busy, his emotions too stirred, to allow it. So he washed his face, and headed to the market to look for breakfast, unwilling to face the mess and his comrades until he had found equanimity.

Someone else was up, looking most out of place among the market-holders and farmers. He stood stock still in horrified surprise as Anne approached, a smirk on her face. “Well, good heavens. The people one meets at first light,” she said.

“Anne. No breakfast for his majesty’s mistress at the palace?”

“I felt like a walk. You look terrible, Olivier.”

“I’m sure. Was there something you wanted from me?”

“Not any more. I’ve done quite nicely without you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why are you even back in France? How many times do I have to help you to leave before you stay gone?”

“Bad luck, I’m afraid. I was on my way to Italy but our ship was overrun by pirates. I used my charm to escape being murdered or sold into slavery, and ended up at Rouen. I persuaded Lemaitre I might be of some use to his band of thugs, hoping I could find a way to get away with a horse and enough gold to take me back to England.”

“Is a word of that true?”

“Some of them, certainly,” she said, smirking again. She seemed happy to chat like old friends, like the events last year hadn’t happened at all. He wasn’t. “Are you worried? Think I’ll expose you and your little pet?”

“I’m sure you would if it would make you money.”

Her expression fell. “I have never knowingly done a thing to harm you, Olivier, however angry I’ve been with you.”

“Does that mean you won’t betray me to the king?”

“Why would I? But a word of advice, my dear _comte de La Fère_. It’s not the _king_ you have to watch out for. Good morning.”

He grabbed her arm. “What do you _mean_?”

He could divine no guile in her eyes as she answered. “I’m not the only new presence in the palace, Olivier, and far from the most dangerous. Watch your back. You belong to me. No one else shall have the pleasure of taunting you.” She said the last with the pretence of a smile, but her eyes were deadly serious.

He let her go and she made her way swiftly on, leaving him to ponder the warning. On the one hand, it only confirmed what Athos suspected. On the other hand, for it to worry Anne, the threat must be severe. Had Rochefort tried to recruit her as the cardinal had? If the comte knew what Richelieu had...Anne was in danger too. Athos wished now he had run after her, to beg her to leave Paris, but his words would have been ignored. Anne had a far too fine a prize dangling before her to give it up.

He would need to warn the captain and his friends. Sighing, he walked on and found a stall selling pastries that would do to break his fast. Then it was time to roust d’Artagnan and go with the others to eliminate at least one threat to the fragile peace between France and Spain.

****************

The king dismissed Treville. Even knowing the king’s nature, and who was advising him these days, Athos would not believed it if his captain—for he was still Athos’s captain no matter what the king’s said—had not thrust the letter from his majesty at him before stalking off to his office, his expression set in stone.

“That bastard,” Porthos spat.

“Porthos, mind your tongue,” Athos warned.

“I ain’t talking about the king, I’m talking about that bloody reptile, Rochefort. This is his work.”

“It certainly bears his scent, if not his seal,” Aramis said.

“We all know how much his seal is worth anyway,” d’Artagnan added. “How can he do this? Treville has served him for twenty years. More. Longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Those who serve a king serve at their pleasure. And displeasure,” Athos said. “I’ll speak to him.”

“But who’s in charge now?” d’Artagnan asked.

“He is, until he tells me otherwise. Just go about your business as usual. I’ll come find you all later.”

There was no answer to his knock at Treville’s door, so Athos walked in. “I don’t want company,” Treville snapped.

“I’m sure. I’ve not come to commiserate, sir, though I do. Anne...Milady delivered a warning this morning about our newest friend at the palace.”

The captain lifted his head, and appeared confused. “Constance?”

“No, Rochefort. If she’s worried, then I am too.”

Treville dismissed his words with a wave. “The king has a new favourite. I’m used to this game.”

“Yes, I know. But several weeks ago, Rochefort tried to have Constance Bonacieux executed for allegedly endangering the dauphin. Constance herself came to us several days ago, concerned about Anne being a threat to the queen. It made me realise her majesty is perhaps in a precarious situation, more than we knew.”

“If you have a point, Athos?”

“Rochefort is doing an excellent job of chipping away those most loyal and protective of their majesties, don’t you think? And replacing him with himself.”

“Richelieu did the same.”

“Yes...but Richelieu was ambitious for France’s sake more than his own. And Richelieu was not a man who relished killing in cold blood for its own sake.”

Treville pursed his lips. “You think him unstable.”

“I think his motives are not easily defined by politics. I also wonder what the late Ambassador Perales wanted to warn his majesty about.”

The captain slumped. “None of this is my concern any more, Athos. The king has ordered it thus.”

This was not the man Athos knew, and he doubted Treville be so disinterested once the bright anger over the king’s actions dimmed. “Indeed. So I present this to you merely for your information. Sir,” he added.

“Fine. You’ve done so. You can leave.”

“And the men?”

“You’re in charge, I suppose. The king made no arrangements. Keep them busy until his majesty decides what to do.”

“And you?”

“I dare say I might apply your solution to my problems.”

Athos straightened in sudden anger at the slap against his honour. “I thought you a better man than that, sir.”

“You were wrong. Get out.”

Athos obeyed, but he had no intention of abandoning his captain. Porthos and Aramis were hanging around the bottom of the stairs. “Keep an eye on him. And we need to watch for Rochefort’s next move.”

“The king is in danger,” Aramis said. By which he meant the queen, Athos was sure.

“They both are. The child too. Do not give him reason to prise another protector from them.” He addressed both of them, but he looked at Aramis. His friend met his gaze, but gave no hint that he knew what Athos meant.

Now Athos wanted a drink. Fortunately d’Artagnan, either by chance or that special awareness of Athos’s moods he possessed, came out of the barracks just as Athos was fighting the urge to flee to a tavern. “Want some company?”

“God yes,” Athos said. He nodded towards his room and d’Artagnan followed. Athos locked the door behind him.

D’Artagnan pushed him against a wall and nuzzled at his neck. “I’d ask what’s wrong but I was planning to do more than talk.”

“Exactly.”

Sometimes, when they stole time together like this, they held each other and kissed. Other times, one or both of them wanted more, and though Athos was in a poor mood after the news this morning, he couldn’t deny d’Artagnan’s ardour. D’Artagnan took their cocks in one long fingered hand, and wrung an orgasm out of both of them, while biting at the point where Athos’s neck met his shoulder. It was fast and satisfying, but as d’Artagnan wiped off his hand on one of Athos’s dirty shirts, Athos realised his lover was as troubled as he was.

He dragged the lad down into his arms and held him tight. “Who are you more worried about? Treville or Constance?”

“All of them. Everyone. If Rochefort can come for the captain, who protects Constance? Or the queen? Or us, if it comes to that.”

“We do. We protect ourselves and the queen and the dauphin, and Constance too.”

“I hate court politics. You know where you are on a farm. Not with these damn nobles and counsellors and mistresses and everyone looking for favours.”

“Life on my estate was easier too, but hardly free from machinations.”

“You don’t think Milady had something to do with Treville being sacked, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Athos told d’Artagnan of the meeting in the market. “For what it’s worth, I believe her.”

“I don’t. She tried to have you executed when she knew you were innocent, even if she didn’t know who you were. And she did the same to me. I don’t want her anywhere near Constance.”

Athos breathed a quiet sigh. “Constance is no threat to her, and as for removing Anne, you’ll have to speak to the king. Fortunes rise and fall at court as you have just seen. Wait and see. Rochefort is a definite danger, and I don’t base that on Anne’s warning, but he is not immortal or infallible.”

“But if the captain is gone, how do we protect the queen, and Constance too?”

“With our lives and devotion, as always. I don’t have the answers, d’Artagnan. All I know is that our friendships and loyalties will be more important than ever now.”

“Like drowning men holding onto a log.”

“Quite.” Athos tightened his grip on his lover. “You have kept me from drowning more than once, after all.” D’Artagnan laughed and tucked himself against Athos’s neck.

Athos allowed them a further precious half-hour together, then he sent d’Artagnan on his way. A few minutes later he emerged himself, ready to hold things together at the garrison until the king—or Rochefort—made his next move.

His hopes rose when a message came from the palace the next day, asking for his attendance, and informing him that his majesty required him to undertake a confidential mission which meant he would be absent for several days. “He has not forgotten his Musketeers,” he said to Treville, as he happily pushed the responsibility for the garrison back onto the man. After all, the lieutenant could have his own lieutenant, could he not?

“Using us as dogsbodies isn’t the same as using as his bodyguard, Athos.”

“I can use this opportunity to remind the king that we are ever his loyal and trustworthy servants, captain.”

Treville grunted. “You can try. Good luck.”

Athos left his captain sulking, hoping his mood would lift by the time he returned.

Aramis was not happy about the request. “Why alone?”

“Why not? It’s not the first time.”

“Yeah, but what is it, exactly?” Porthos demanded.

“I’ll find out when I get to the palace. Speaking of which, I’m late. Be kind to the captain while I’m gone. Stop him drinking his own weight in alcohol. I speak from experience when I say it will do him no good.”

“We’ll do our best,” d’Artagnan said. “Good luck.”

Athos tipped his hat at his lover, and mounted Roger to ride to the Louvre.

He never reached it.


	4. Chapter 4

Athos wasn’t sure how long it was before the reason for his abduction became clear. He had been lured by cries for help into an alley and viciously and efficiently assaulted into unconsciousness by six men. When he next became aware, he was tightly bound and gagged in the back of a cart. His head injury caused him to drift in and out of consciousness, so he had no idea how much time passed before he was carried from the cart and hung by his wrists in a barn.

His captors were taking no chances that he might escape. At no point was the gag removed, or his wrists and ankles unbound. He could stand, but not sit, and when he slipped into unconsciousness again, the strain on his chest made it near impossible to breathe, jerking him awake again. He judged that he had spent at least five hours strung up like that before someone he knew all too well strolled into the barn.

“Ah, Olivier. How nice to see you again.”

Athos couldn’t reply of course, but he did his best to scowl his utter disgust with Baron Rénard. The man was unaffected by his look. “You’re probably a little confused as to why I’ve brought you here in this manner. You see, I have some documents I want you to sign, and I thought you’d be more amenable if I let you contemplate the matter in familiar surroundings.”

The old bastard hadn’t lost the smallest amount of his pomposity in the time since Athos had last seen him, and in the circumstances, Athos had even less patience with his drivel than usual. “You probably want to know what these documents are. They’re bills of sale for your land to me. All of it. While I can’t marry the delightful Catherine until your death, I certainly can take advantage of your estate, which is not being managed to its fullest capacity at the moment. Your father would be horrified. Your _comtesse_ does her best but your man is really rather unhelpful on the matter.”

 _Good_ , Athos thought.

“So you can hang there until you either die, in which case I can marry your widow and the lands will be mine, or you sign them over. Of course it suits me best if you die, but I’m a fair man. I’m offering you an honourable alternative. All you have to do is agree to sell the land for a small, one might even say, nominal sum, and you can go free.”

 _Unlikely._ Once Athos found a judge and swore an oath that he’d been coerced, the sale would be nullified. No, Rénard intended him to die. Much tidier.

“You’re probably thinking that your Musketeer friends will come looking for you, or that the palace will send a search party. Unfortunately for you, the message you received was a sham. No one will miss you for days, Olivier. And in this heat, how long will you last without water, do you think?”

Rénard strutted around Athos, impossibly pleased with his plan. Athos didn’t bother trying to track his movements, but grunted when Rénard drove a fist into his lower back. “I’ve waited a long time to teach you the lesson you deserve, you little bastard,” he hissed against Athos’s ear. “I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer. I’ll listen to you beg for mercy, pleading to be allowed to sign those papers. And how sweet that will be to me. Your family have lorded it over mine for too long, and now, I will see you ground into the dust.” He punched Athos again, making him lose his footing and putting unbearable strain on his arms and bruised body. Athos struggled to stand again, and ignored Rénard as best he could. “Still the arrogant fool, I see. You won’t be so arrogant in a week or so, I wager.”

Rénard stalked out, which at least removed his irritating voice from Athos’s hearing. He forced himself to breathe evenly and not choke on the gag. Though, if he was honest, choking was a kinder death than the one Rénard proposed. Already the day was warm, though it was still early morning, he guessed. In the height of summer, a man could not last long without water. Three, possibly four days. D’Artagnan and the others would not think to look for him before then, if at all. Depending on who was helping Rénard, they might not miss him for more than a week, even two, and Athos would be dead by then.

He suspected even if he agreed to sign the bills of sale, he would not live long after doing so. Rénard could not afford for Athos to invalidate them. So either Athos signed, and died in an ‘accident’ of Rénard’s making, or he didn’t sign, and died hung like a dead pheasant in this barn. Some choice.

If he signed though, there was a chance of escape, albeit a vanishingly small one. He couldn’t agree too quickly. Rénard wasn’t a complete idiot. But his low opinion of Athos could work in his favour. Endure three or so days of torment, be released before all his strength was gone, and perhaps he could fight his way out. He’d rather do down that way than die of thirst and give Rénard the satisfaction of seeing him do so.

All he had to do was get through those three days. He’d done worse.

****************

Actually, no, he hadn’t done anything as hard as this before. He hadn’t counted on Rénard’s love of causing pain in the people he hated, or the efficiency of his hired hands in doing so. Every couple of hours one of them would wander in and use his hands or a knife or, once, a heated brand, to torment Athos to the point of screaming behind the gag which was never, ever removed. And despite this ‘encouragement’ to cooperate, he was never offered a chance to sign anything. Rénard had been toying with him, offering the illusion of hope. All he truly wanted was Athos to die as painfully and slowly as possible, without giving Athos a chance to cut the process short.

All _Athos_ truly wanted, other than for Rénard to suffer a stroke which left him unable to do anything but wet himself, was to see d’Artagnan one last time. His young lover would take his death hard, and avenge him as fiercely as possible, but Athos only wanted to see his eyes again, to feel his smooth skin, to taste his lips more once before he died.

And he desperately wanted d’Artagnan not to see him as he was now, filthy, bruised, desperate and fast losing his mind. The need for water was a demon in his head, its claws shredding his thoughts. Even the attentions of Rénard’s thugs were somewhat welcome because they distracted him from the raging thirst. He found it harder and harder not to succumb to the temptation to let the suspension by his wrists steal his breath forever. The lack of proper sleep made him hallucinate, but not with anything that gave him relief from the pain or the thirst. If he could die imagining d’Artagnan’s hands on him, it wouldn’t be so bad to leave this life.

But the hallucinations were not the kind to give him ease, and if he could hurry and die and stop seeing those he loved—or once loved—dead at his hands, he would be grateful to Aramis’s god.

By the fifth day, he knew he was dying. He was sorry for the pain it would cause, but he was tired and in pain and so thirsty. He couldn’t even weep now, no matter now much how much he wanted to.

Rénard came down to gloat, and brought Catherine with him. Through bleary eyes that barely opened now, Athos saw the reason Rénard was in such a hurry to get rid of him. Athos’s wife was obviously pregnant. Clearly they had grown tired of waiting for her husband to be killed in the service of the king.

“Not long now, Olivier. I’ve a little bet with Edmund. He thinks you’ll be dead by midnight. I think you might last until midday. What say you, my love?”

“Is this necessary? Why not finish him and be done?” Catherine made a face and turned away from Athos’s pathetic form.

“Because this way his death will appear less suspicious. His body can be dumped back in Paris and his friends will assume he’s gone on another bender, and suffered the consequences. It won’t be much longer.”

“I hope not. Excuse me.” She left, her distaste plain.

“Ah, my dear lady has scruples. I, fortunately, have none. I’ll be here to hear your last breath, Athos. Depend on it.”

Athos was past caring. He was past grief, almost past thought. Death would be welcome and he prayed for it to come sooner rather than later. If they removed the gag, he would beg Rénard to deal the final blow.

As he began to die, the hallucinations intensified. Anne, naked, came to him with cool water in a cup, holding it just out of reach from his lips. His mother stroked his hair and told him he was a brave boy, and to hold on. His father appeared and told him he was a coward to give up so easily.

And d’Artagnan rushed to him and cut him down, took the hateful gag off him, holding sweet water to his mouth, and swore when Athos couldn’t swallow. “Please, love.” D’Artagnan was weeping. Athos tried to force this dream away. He didn’t want to see his beloved cry.

But now Aramis came to him. “Free his hands. I’ve got this.” Aramis wiped Athos’s lips with a wet finger and Athos followed the water with his swollen tongue. A few precious drops fell into his mouth, and Athos would have wept if there was any water left in him.

He cried weakly in pain as his wrists were freed. Why couldn't the pain end? Why wasn’t he dead yet? “Athos, open your eyes.” A gentle, damp finger stroked his eyelids. “Open your eyes. It’s Aramis. You’re safe now.”

God, this was the worst. To be taunted by rescue...but some more water dripped into his mouth and he sucked clumsily, eagerly. “Careful, my friend. Open your eyes. D’Artagnan needs to see them. Please, Athos.”

 _D’Artagnan._ He could try for d’Artagnan. But it was so hard, and his eyelids so sore and heavy. More damp pressure, a cloth this time, and he managed to free one eye. Such a strange dream, this one.

D’Artagnan was there, his brown eyes wet. Athos wanted to lick his face, taste the precious water from his love. “Athos, we’ve got you. We found you, but we have to get you away from here. Please, love, wake up.”

Athos couldn’t speak, but he kept staring at d’Artagnan’s face. He could look at it while he died.

Moments later, he was a lot more awake, because Aramis had poured a cup of water over his face. Athos spluttered, then sucked desperate at the water. “That’s it, Athos. You can have as much as you want, but slowly. We have to move you. Can you walk?”

Athos stared at Aramis. “No,” he croaked.

“I got ‘im,” another voice rumbled. _Porthos_. Then a strong pair of arms was under his back and legs, and he was lifted easily as a child.

He lost focus for a bit, and panicked when he thought d’Artagnan had left him, but then his love was there at his side, soothing him. “It’s all right. We’re just taking you somewhere safe.”

He clutched at d’Artagnan’s shirt, and a hand covered his, a hand with long knobbly fingers he loved and knew as well as his own. Athos relaxed. Nothing bad would happen while that hand held his.

He was lifted on a horse, but passed out immediately, and the next he knew, he was lying on a bed, d’Artagnan’s hand still on him, while Aramis gave him more water, and other hands stripped him. “He’s close to death,” he heard a woman say. “If he can drink, we can save him,” Aramis said. Could he drink? He wanted to, but his mouth was so dry, his tongue so swollen.

“Rest now, love,” d’Artagnan said, his hand on Athos’s forehead. Athos opened his eyes and saw d’Artagnan looking back at him.

“Real?”

“I’m real. You should sleep. You’re safe. The captain is here.”

 _Captain. Yes._ Now he could sleep.

****************

It took more than water to bring him back to life. A fever took Athos by the throat and came close to killing him, and the treatment for his infected wounds caused more pain than them being inflicted in the first place. Athos dreamed, and hallucinated, and was never sure if the people talking to him were real or his imagination. So many people, so many faces, some he knew well, some he knew not at all.

In one of his coherent moments, he grabbed d’Artagnan’s shirtfront. “Rénard?”

“We’ll deal with him. Rest, love. Just get well.”

He had no idea where he was, or how long it took for him to recover enough for Aramis to stop praying at his side. All he knew was that he woke—at a guess, one evening—and first time in what felt like years, he could see and think and feel without it being impossibly difficult. D’Artagnan and Aramis sat by him, and Aramis bent over him at the first sound Athos croaked from his mouth. “His fever has broken.”

“Oh my God,” d’Artagnan said, and there were tears in his voice. Athos flailed his hand and d’Artagnan caught it. “I’ve got you, Athos.”

“You...stayed...with me?”

“Where else would I be?” Then d’Artagnan hugged him, his tears wetting Athos’s neck. Athos still had no strength to hug or hold him, but he saw Aramis watching them and smiling. There were tears in Aramis’s eyes too.

Over the next hour, d’Artagnan fed him some water with a spoon, and a tiny amount of cold, sweetened herbal tea. Aramis fetched Treville and Porthos, who grinned at him like he’d done something amazing.

“Tell me,” Athos managed to say. “How?”

“Milady, surprisingly,” Treville said.

“She sent word to Constance,” d’Artagnan continued. “Saying Rénard and your wife had appeared at court, and Rénard was talking to Rochefort.”

“And her majesty was able to find out that the king had sent you on no mission,” Aramis said. “D’Artagnan insisted something had happened to you.”

“And we made the captain lead the search,” Porthos said. Treville rolled his eyes, but kept smiling. “One of the folks here in Pinon said they had seen a covered cart being driven to Rénard’s estate late one evening. So we looked.”

“You’re in Pinon now, at the inn,” Treville said. “But as soon as you can travel, we’ll take you to Paris. Aramis?”

“At least another two days, sir. I fear for his heart if we put him under stress any sooner.”

“Rénard,” Athos whispered. “Stop ‘im.”

D’Artagnan stroked his face. “Stop him doing what, Athos? What is he doing?”

“La Fère. Wants. I die, marries Catherine.”

“Since you’re not dead, that plan is finished,” Treville said.

Athos turned his head to look at d’Artagnan. “With child,” he said, and saw d’Artagnan’s eyes grow large as he realised.

“She’s pregnant by him again?” Athos nodded.

“Then he wants Athos out of the way so he can marry her, no doubt,” Aramis said. “He won’t stop here, and if Rochefort is helping him, Athos has a target on his back until we end this somehow.”

“Right now, all I want is Athos back at the garrison. We can take care of other threats later,” Treville said.

But just then a young boy ran into the room. “It’s the baron, sir! He’s come looking for the comte! Please, he’s brought men!”

D’Artagnan kissed Athos’s forehead, and ran out with the others. Only Aramis stayed. “Go,” Athos whispered.

“No, someone needs to protect you if the baron is looking for you. Be calm, my friend. You can do nothing except continue to recover.”

Outside the sound of gunfire and fisticuffs agitated Athos, worried that his tenants and his friends were being slaughtered for his sake. Aramis had to fight him to stay still and wait. “Please, Athos. You’ll kill yourself exerting yourself in this state. We only got you back just in time.”

His energy was not up to the crisis and he passed out before it ended. When he woke again, it was dark, and his friends were all back in the room. “We’ve held him and his men off for now, but they’ll renew their assault in the morning,” Treville reported.

“Let me up.”

“No way in hell,” d’Artagnan snapped. “You can’t even sit without help. What can you do?’

“Guns,” Athos whispered. “Gunpowder. House.”

“Tell me where they are and we’ll fetch it,” d’Artagnan said, leaning close. So Athos murmured the instructions on where to find the key, how to enter the dry cellar, and where to find his seal ring.

“Servants may fight. Don’t...hurt.”

“They might want to help you,” Aramis said.

“Piquet. Ask...for Piquet.”

“Porthos, d’Artagnan, with me,” Treville said. “Aramis, stay with him. I still think the best thing is to get him away from here.”

“And abandon the village to Rénard?”

“No,” Athos said, gripping Aramis’s wrist. “No.”

“Monsieur le comte has spoken,” Aramis said, smiling at Athos. “Go, captain.”

“The villagers won’t know what to do with the guns,” Porthos said.

“Then we show them,” d’Artagnan said. “Come on.” He gave Athos a gentle pat on the cheek. “You, keep drinking.”

Athos wanted to stay awake until they returned, but the effort of sipping more water, more tea, a small spoonful of soup, and enduring Aramis changing his many bandages exhausted him too thoroughly. He slept through till dawn, and woke with a frantic gasp, searching for d’Artagnan. He only found Aramis, asleep upright in a chair. “ ‘mis. ‘Mis!”

Aramis woke with a start, and automatically reached for his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Back?”

“Yes, a little while ago. Everyone’s safe, Athos.”

Athos sagged back onto the mattress. He hated being so helpless. “Water?”

“Of course.”

He was determined to help with the defence of the village, and by extension, his own worthless self, so he demanded water and soup as fast as Aramis would allow it, though not as fast as he wanted it. “You’ll be sick, and weak as you are, that might kill you, Athos. Just accept you can do nothing for now.”

“I want to help.”

“You can’t. If you die now, you’ll break the lad’s heart. And mine. Please.”

So Athos relented, and when Aramis let d’Artagnan back into the room an hour later, simply allowed his love to lie next to him and hold him. “Rénard.”

“It’s all right. We’ve built a barricade, and Treville and Porthos are teaching a few of the more able men to fight. Aramis and I will join them. We all need a little sleep, that’s all.”

“Then sleep.” Athos kissed his hair. “Aramis? You too.”

“Already on my way. Do you need anything?”

“I have d’Artagnan.”

Aramis grinned. “I understand.” He sat on a pallet near Athos’s bed, and as far as Athos could tell, was asleep in moments. He must have been keeping vigils for days.

D’Artagnan too, slept easily and hard like a man past his limits. Athos, for once, was the best rested of all of them, and spent an anxious couple of hours watching his friends. He looked up as the door opened quietly and Captain Treville put his head around it. “Time to go.”

Aramis was already sitting up. Athos nudged d’Artagnan who woke with a snort. “You’re needed.”

D’Artagnan took the time to check Athos before he rose. “Will you be all right? We can spare no one to sit with you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Please don’t get up, Athos. I’m serious about the danger,” Aramis said.

“Promise.”

D’Artagnan brushed a kiss on his forehead, despite Treville watching them. “I’ll be back soon.”

The next hour was an anxious one, as Athos listened to the battle, unable to help or even advise. After everything had fallen silent, he waited until he heard the tread of heavy boots on the stairs. Damn it, he didn’t even had a pistol within reach.

Fortunately, it was Porthos, not an enemy. “They’ve retreated. Took heavy losses. It might be enough to stop him coming back.”

“Never,” Athos said, rising onto one elbow. “I need to speak to Treville.”

“All right. Give ‘im a couple of hours. He’s had no sleep. Me either.”

“Send d’Artagnan? Then go, rest.”

“Right you are.”

Stinking of gun smoke and blood, d’Artagnan joined him on the bed again, holding him tight but saying nothing as he went back to sleep. Aramis returned and also slept. Porthos and the captain must have taken a room elsewhere in the inn.

Some time past noon, Bernard the innkeeper opened the door with food on a platter for the sleeping warriors. “Beg pardon, my lord. I thought they might want this.”

“Thank you. Thank you for protecting me.”

“No need, my lord. The baron’s been a right pest for a while. I wish you were back at La Fère, and no mistake. Is it possible you could put an end to his attacks on us?”

“We’ll try,” Athos said, endeavouring to look noble and capable as he could from a prone position. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Old Charles took a musket ball and died, sadly. A few other injuries. Your man there, Aramis, treated them. Everyone else is fine.”

“I’ll pay for his burial. Any dependents?”

“No, my lord. Glad to see you looking better than when they brought you in. Do you need aught?”

“No, see to your people. Thank you.”

Bernard bowed and left hem in peace. d’Artagnan had woken and now stretched, kissed Athos’s cheek, and rose to seize the bread and cheese on the platter. “I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

“No, thirsty. Wait, d’Artagnan. Eat first,” he said as d’Artagnan looked to put his food down in favour of feeding Athos more liquid.

“He’s right,” Aramis said, picking up the spoon and mug of water. “You need water, as often as you can take it.”

Athos allowed Aramis to give him half the mug, then pushed it away. “I need to piss.”

Aramis grinned. “Excellent!”

“Are you mad?”

“Athos, your body is recovering. Needing to piss is a good sign.”

D’Artagnan grinned over Aramis’s head as Aramis carefully helped Athos to his feet, and allowed Athos to make water. “Perhaps you should bottle it,” Athos said as Aramis peered at the production.

“Honestly, I would, I’m so pleased. You look better.”

“I feel better. I could hold a pistol.”

“Not on your life, _monsieur le comte_.”

“I meant, in bed, idiot. What if someone had come up those stairs who wasn’t one of you?”

“Good point. I’ll arrange it. But first, food.”

Aramis washed his hands then fell on the bread and cheese like a starving man. D’Artagnan took a second portion, though he ate much more slowly this time. “How do you feel?” he asked Athos.

“Only half-dead. Improved.”

“I thought we’d arrived too late. Even Aramis thought you were dead.”

“I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my life,” Aramis said, smiling at the pair of them.

“I need to speak to Treville.”

“Give me a chance to finish this and I’ll find him for you,” Aramis said.

Bernard had brought ale along with the food, and Aramis suggested some bread softened in beer might be suitable for Athos’s stomach. He sipped water and slowly ate the bread and beer mixture. Every muscle in his body ached, and he had not even the strength of a newborn babe, but his mind was clear. As the others ate and he took in what nourishment he could manage, Athos contemplated how he could end Rénard’s campaign against him and the village, and what tools he had to hand to accomplish this.

True to his word, as soon as Aramis finished eating he went to find Treville. He returned with the captain and Porthos both. “You look better,” Treville said.

“I believe I will survive. Sir, I have an idea how to stop Rénard. How long can you be away from Paris?”

“We’ve been gone six days. I suspect two weeks could pass without his majesty noticing. Or a month,” he added sourly.

“I only need a day or two. I need you to act as marshal, for I plan to offer Rénard a challenge. If he wants my land so badly, let him fight me for it.”

Porthos shook his head. “You’re out of your mind, Athos. You couldn’t even lift a sword, let alone fight with one.”

Athos smiled. “Ah, but I believe I can call on royal authority here. Let’s call it the LaBarge precedent.”

Porthos frowned and Treville stared, until suddenly the captain’s expression brightened with the first smile Athos had seen on his face since he’d been dismissed. “And you want me to make sure the rules are followed to the letter.”

“Precisely.”

D’Artagnan’s gaze swung between his lover and his captain. “Could someone please explain to me what the hell you’re talking about?”

“All in good time, d’Artagnan,” Athos said, knowing he was being an irritating shit. “First, I need someone to take a message to the baron.”

****************

D’Artagnan rode to La Fère to ask one of the grooms there to ride to Rénard’s estate with Athos’s message. And then it was all about the planning.

The first concern was the safety of the villagers. Treville had learned on their visit to La Fère to collect weapons and gunpowder that the servants there had no love for the baron, and precious little for Catherine who had become more erratic and cruel as the years had gone by, thought of late she spent all her time with her son at Rénard’s mansion. Piquet remained, to Athos’s amazement. Decrepit he might be, he was the sole link with Athos’s father among the servants, and had kept his memory alive. Athos depended on him to help the transition go smoothly, and to make sure the women and children from the village would be kept safe there from the baron’s marauders. Most of the men would go with the women to help protect them, though some would remain to give the illusion that the village’s barricade was still well defended.

Athos had learned another lesson from the LaBarge incident—there was no point in fighting a cheat honourably. Should Rénard win the challenge, Treville would arrest him for attempted murder and abduction. One way or another, Rénard had to be removed.

Until the time Athos had nominated for the challenge—two days’ hence, at noon—the five of them prepared themselves, and those villagers who remained behind. Athos rested, ate, drank, and pissed for Aramis’s entertainment, while his wounds were tended and his body slowly recovered from the abuse it had received. Aramis solemnly told him that he judged Athos to have been just hours from death when they found him.

“So Rénard would have lost the bet with his son,” Athos said. Aramis crossed himself. Even that jaded soldier and man of the world was shocked at the baron betting on when a man would die of thirst.

D’Artagnan prepared by drills and exercises, though Athos was confident that even on d’Artagnan’s worst day, he was more than up to the task. When he wasn’t training, he was at Athos’s side, helping him, cuddling him, reassuring himself Athos really was alive. “If we had been even a little slower,” he murmured at night.

“You weren’t. There have been closer shaves, d’Artagnan. When I first met you comes to mind.”

D’Artagnan shuddered and pressed his face closer into Athos’s neck. “Don’t, love.”

Athos stroked his hair and thanked the fates for the bravery and quick thinking of his young lover. And for Anne’s solicitude in warning them of Rénard’s collaboration with Rochefort. Perhaps it was simply that she loathed both men more than she hated Athos, or maybe there was enough lingering affection there for her to wish him safe, but he owed her twice over now. He planned to repay her as soon as he was well again.

A message came to the inn to say the challenge was accepted. Now all they had to do was wait.

The heat continued, and made Aramis fret about Athos. “I could wish you back in Paris now.”

“It’s hotter there, and you said yourself, I shouldn’t be on a horse.”

“Yes, but there are doctors there.”

Athos clasped his hand. “You’re the only physician I need. You saved my life.”

“Not I, Athos. God worked a miracle.”

“Through you. I would be dead without your care.”

Aramis had grinned, and Athos knew there was no convincing him that God had had little to do with his rescue.

The day of the challenge was sunny and the hottest day that week. Aramis had insisted that Athos remain seated under shade the entire time. Porthos was working with d’Artagnan, keeping him warmed up but not exhausted, and making sure their impetuous youngster drank plenty of water. Treville supervised the villagers with a glee that lifted Athos’s spirits to see. If the king did not restore their captain soon, he might lose Treville forever. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Shortly before noon, a dozen horses and their riders entered the village square. Rénard and Edmond led the group, with Catherine and her boy behind. The rest were his men. Athos met them on his feet, Treville at his side. “I see you’ve recovered, Olivier,” Rénard said, his arms crossed over his pommel. “Close thing, what?”

“Dismount, baron,” Athos said, not rising to the bait. “All of you. The others may take a seat over there.” Benches had been set out, also under shade, for the newcomers.

“Hardly worth it, Olivier. This should take less than a minute.”

The captain spoke. “Baron Rénard, I am Treville of the King’s Musketeers. The _comte de La Fère_ has asked me to act as marshal and adjudicator of this challenge. Do you accept?”

Rénard waved his hand lazily. “As you wish.”

“Then please dismount, and have your people keep outside the boundary.”

Rénard signalled to the others, and dismounted, going to Catherine’s side to help her down. Athos noted she couldn’t look at him at all. She seemed afraid, angry. Certainly not as cocksure as her lover about the outcome.

Having seen to his mistress, Rénard walked back. “So, what’s it to be, Olivier? Swords? Hand to hand? Pistols at a dozen paces?” He looked Athos up and down. “ _Boules_ , perhaps?” His men laughed.

“Swords,” Athos said. “However...captain?” He turned to Treville.

“Pursuant to the decree of his majesty Louis, thirteenth of that name, in the year of our lord 1630, since one of the participants has broken the code of honour to disable his opponent, that opponent has the right to nominate a substitute to carry out the challenge in his name. The _comte de La Fère_ has chosen Charles D’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony to fight for him.”

Rénard puffed up with anger. “What nonsense is this? Olivier challenged me personally!”

“I did,” Athos drawled. “But since my physical condition has been reduced because of your criminal and ignoble behaviour, his majesty’s rules allow me to substitute D’Artagnan.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

Treville stepped forward. “Are you forfeiting the challenge, baron? Are you handing over your lands to the _comte de La Fère_ as the loser of this encounter?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I told you he’d be too frightened to accept,” Athos said to Treville in a stage whisper. “There isn’t a man in France who can beat a Musketeer at the sword, save another Musketeer.”

Aramis had come over, and noted loudly to Porthos, “And the baron is well past his prime. Perhaps it was expecting too much.”

“Our runt can beat him with one hand tied behind his back.” The ‘runt’ merely smiled at Porthos’s description.

Rénard exploded. “You cocky little bastards. Bring him on. Bring them all on. I can beat any of you in a fair fight.”

“Really. Strange you went out of your way to avoid one,” Athos said. Rénard went to draw his sword but found four Musketeers ready to answer him with their own weapons if he went further.

Treville lifted his chin. “If you accept the conditions of the challenge, baron, withdraw to your corner, and I will signal the start. There will be three rounds. Best of three wins, unless one or the other is mortally wounded.” He stood glaring at Rénard until the man stomped away.

Athos retreated to the chair made ready for him and accepted a cup of water from Aramis. It was the longest he had been on his feet since his rescue, and the effort had quite worn him out. “Watch out for Edmond,” he murmured. “He’s cut from the same cloth.”

“Passed through the same cow twice, we would say,” D’Artagnan said. Athos snorted into his mug. “Any advice?”

“Only what I always say. Head over heart. Or in his case, arse over tit.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Understood.”

The other musketeers took up positions to keep a close eye on Rénard’s supporters. Athos had two pistols beside the chair and a knife in his boot, though if he had to use the latter, it would be a brief and ignominious battle.

Treville walked to the centre of the arena. “Gentlemen, at my mark, begin.” He stepped back to the boundary. “Now!”

Rénard strolled forward, a sneer on his mouth. D’Artagnan stepped up, sword and main gauche in his hands, but waited, just as Athos had trained him to do, forcing Rénard to make the first move, which he parried easily, almost carelessly. A second strike was turned away just as casually. Rénard scowled, and launched himself in earnest.

It was like a cat playing with a mouse. Rénard was old, out of practice, and rigid in his technique, sticking to what his sword tutor taught him as a child. D’Artagnan, limber and fit in his shirt sleeves, had over a year fighting with the best swordsmen in Paris—nay, in Europe—and his confidence was entirely justified. Even so, he forbore from finishing Rénard quickly. He sliced at the man’s arm and won the first round, and ended the second with a nasty cut to Rénard’s side after toying with him for several minutes. The noonday heat wore on Rénard’s stamina, and Athos couldn’t help but take some satisfaction from the baron having the smallest taste of the hell he’d put Athos through.

Before the third round, Rénard called for water. Treville graciously allowed it. Athos noted the man speaking urgently and angrily with his oldest son, as if it was somehow Edmond’s fault his father was a pompous bully and would-be murderer.

“Gentlemen, time to begin,” Treville called after Rénard had had his refreshment.

D’Artagnan smiled as he walked out, cocky, fresh, unstoppable. But Athos wasn’t watching his lover, but what was going on among Rénard’s men. Edmond was up to something.

D’Artagnan took his time, humiliating Rénard by exhausting him, pushing him back, never touching his flesh but making his wrists ache with the blows D’Artagnan gave his sword. Rénard stumbled, and D’Artagnan had his sword tip against his throat.

Edmond moved. He had a pistol in his hand. “D’Artagnan!” Athos yelled, and D’Artagnan jerked sideways just as Edmond fired. But there had been two shots.

Edmond dropped, Aramis’s musket ball buried in his head. But Catherine also fell, her son screaming with fear. Rénard scrambled to his feet and ran to Edmond. “My son! You killed him!”

Only because Athos was watching him closely, did he see it happen. Rénard snatched a pistol from the belt of one of his men, aiming it at D’Artagnan who was still upright in the arena. Athos grabbed his pistol, barely taking time to aim and fired, hoping at least to distract the shot.

Rénard fell. D’Artagnan remained upright. Aramis and Porthos ran into the arena, pistols in both hands, and Treville too, weapons held in front of him as he cried, “Hold! No one move!”

“Bernard, help me up.” The innkeeper helped Athos stand with a hand under his arm. Athos picked up his other, unfired pistol and with Bernard’s help, walked slowly over to his dead wife’s side.

Catherine’s son was weeping over his mother’s body. The fatal shot to her breast had come from Edmond’s pistol as his aim was ruined. Aramis knelt beside her and murmured prayers, making the sign of the cross on her forehead. Athos felt...nothing. He had not wanted her death, but she had watched him being tortured to death by her lover without a word of protest. She had come here today in support. Aramis’s prayers would not save her from judgement.

But if Athos had been able to give her the children she wanted, none of this would have happened. So there was regret there, certainly.

Treville crouched beside Rénard, checked his pulse and breathing, then shook his head. Edmond was clearly also past help. Athos turned to the eight men Rénard had brought with him. “All of you, go back to the estate. Your master is dead, and so is his heir. Take their bodies back and have them buried where they belong. The king will decide who inherits the estate. If you are seen in Pinon or on my land, you will be shot on sight. I am the magistrate, and I order it thus.”

The men looked ready to resist, but Aramis and Porthos made sure they obeyed. One of them made for Philippe, but Athos stopped him. “No. This child is my heir. He is nothing to do with you any longer. Go!”

“We could have arrested them for attempted murder,” Treville said once they had been moved away from the village boundaries.

Athos calculated how difficult it would be to do this with the resources they had. He wasn’t enthusiastic about risking his friends or his tenants again. “Do you want to?”

“No. We can sweep them up later. What about the boy?”

“Bring him to La Fère. That’s where I need to go next.”

D’Artagnan came to Athos’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I could do with a long lie down but otherwise.... You did well.”

“So did you.”

“Were you worried?”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Not for a moment.”

Bernard took charge of the child, though he needed help from Porthos when the boy’s distress grew violent. Athos ordered four villagers to have Catherine’s body placed in a cart to return to La Fère, and sent another with a message to her father. He had no idea what the state of relations were between father and daughter but he owed it to the man to give him a chance to collect her body for interment in the family vault. Otherwise, she would be buried with Athos’s family.

He rode with D’Artagnan up to the house. The servants and villagers came out en masse to greet him. D’Artagnan helped him dismount so he could address them. “Baron Rénard and his son Edmond are dead. So is the _comtesse de La Fère_.” A couple of the women gasped, but there was no sudden outpouring of grief. “Take her body and prepare it with full honours. She will lie in state here until her place of rest is decided.” He looked at the villagers. “Pinon is safe now. You may return to your homes. The baron will trouble you no more.” A ragged cheer started up and Athos smiled a little.

Piquet came out of the crowd as the villagers began to drift back towards Pinon. He bowed. “My lord, welcome home. Does this mean you’ll be staying this time?”

“Not at all, Piquet. But the comtesse’s son will live here henceforth, and I entrust him to your care, among others. He must learn the correct way to steward the estate, for he will inherit it upon my death.”

“But my lord, he’s—”

“A son of my wife, born during our marriage. By law, he is mine. Now we need to undo the harm done by the baron, and offer him comfort in his grief. Can you do that for me, Piquet?” he added in a softer tone. “He saw his mother killed.”

“Poor child. I’ll look after him, my lord, like he was my own.”

“Then do so.” Athos smiled until Piquet went to Bernard to take charge of the boy, then he muttered, “D’Artagnan, help.”

D’Artagnan grabbed his arm and more or less carried him into the house. A chair was brought, and cool water. Aramis fussed and gave orders. Athos must have fainted because when he was next aware, he was back in his old bedroom, being waited on by an anxious D’Artagnan. “Where are the others?”

“Being fed and treated like conquering heroes. Are you all right?”

Athos slung an arm around D’Artagnan’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him. “I am now. We did it.”

“We did. You did.”

“We all did.”

“Yes, we all did.” D’Artagnan kissed his forehead. “Get some sleep. There’s water beside you and Aramis will arrange food for you when you wake.”

“Come back when you’ve eaten?”

“I’ll eat in here, if you like.”

Athos dozed again, and woke to find D’Artagnan seated at his desk, the remnants of his meal on a plate before him. D’Artagnan was instantly at his side, and gave him some water to sip. He helped Athos sit, then offered him some soup and bread. Athos’s appetite had slowly returned, and he was eager to become strong enough to ride back to Paris. At least another day, Aramis had said.

“What will you do with the boy?” D’Artagnan asked.

“See he is cared for. Piquet will attend him. I suppose Guillame can act as his guardian.”

“And that’s it? What about teaching him the sword, or to ride? Who will give him moral guidance, teach him the code of honour?”

Athos frowned. “I don’t know. It’s hardly my fault the child is an orphan now.”

“He’s not. You’re his legal father. Athos, you can’t abandon him. He’ll become like Rénard, or worse. A boy needs his father, like you did, and I did.”

“I can hardly bring him back to Paris, D’Artagnan. Especially not now. For all I know the king is about to disband the regiment.”

D’Artagnan wouldn’t look at him. Athos had the sense he had disappointed the man. “I’ll make arrangements. I just don’t know what they will be, but I won’t abandon him, I promise.”

D’Artagnan lifted his head and smiled. “Thank you.”

Aramis wandered in half an hour later to check on Athos, and was pleased at his condition. “Can I ride tomorrow?”

“Not unless you enjoy dropping dead halfway,” Aramis said. “The captain is content to stay another day or two. You have things to arrange. A _comtesse_ to bury, for one.”

Athos pulled a face. “I suppose. Have you made friends with our priest yet?”

“Father Prieur, yes. He’s praying for her in the hall. He can say a mass for her tomorrow, if you wish.”

“I suppose it might comfort the boy. Go ahead and arrange it.”

Aramis coughed. “People will expect you to attend.”

“People will be disappointed. I refuse to be that much of a hypocrite, Aramis.”

“As you wish.”

A knock on the door, and Athos bid them enter. It was one of the young household servants. “Beg pardon, my lord, for interrupting, but Baron de Garouville is here.”

“Offer him refreshment, and take him to the hall if he wishes. I’ll be down shortly.”

The young man bowed and left them. “Help me up, D’Artagnan, please.”

“Athos, you shouldn’t—”

Athos glared at Aramis. “You wanted me to go to Mass tomorrow for no good reason, but you want me to snub my grieving father-in-law?”

Aramis held up his hands. “All right. D’Artagnan, you better go with him in case he falls down.”

Athos was only in his shirtsleeves and braies, and his leathers were back at Bernard’s inn, so he had d’Artagnan find some of his old clothes from the closet. They hung loosely on him now, and if anything, accentuated his sickly appearance. Perhaps the old baron might not be so hard on such a pitiable sight.

D’Artagnan regarded him with folded arms. “You look...different.”

“Wrong, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t be helped. Your arm?”

Making his way downstairs was a slow business. “How did I get up here?”

“Porthos.”

“Ah.” Athos was glad to have been unconscious for that.

Baron de Garouville was waiting for him, and frowned to see Athos so frail. “I wasn’t told you were ill, my lord.”

“I’m not. My condolences, _monsieur le baron_.” Athos bowed.

“And mine, my lord, though I expect you’re not sorry to see the end of a faithless wife.” His angry words did not match the sorrow in his eyes.

“I did not seek her death, sir. There was fault on both sides. Come, let us honour her together.”

They stood at the bier, close to the priest muttering his prayers for her soul. The servants had done their best to disguise Catherine’s pregnancy, but her belly still testified to her continued adultery. Strangely the sight made Athos feel sadness for the first time. She had only wanted to be a mother and the mistress of La Fère. Rénard had made advances to her for his own ambitions, Athos was certain. He could have done more for her, if he hadn’t allowed his emotions to sway him.

“Rénard is dead, I hear.”

Athos turned to the baron. “Yes. He tried to murder me and came close to succeeding. Then his son fired at one of our Musketeers but killed Catherine, and our man killed him. I believe it was my shot which killed Rénard when he fired at us.”

“Don’t mistake me, my lord. I don’t mourn the bastard. I can’t forgive him or Catherine for their sins, though she was still my child.”

“He bears the greater blame, sir, for he seduced her with the intention of seizing my lands. He can’t have been unaware of the harm he was doing to our marriage. She only wanted to bear me an heir.”

“And the child?”

“Is my heir in law, and will be raised as such.”

The baron turned to him in surprise. “You allow this?”

“The child bears no fault for his parents’ behaviour. What use is La Fère to me now?”

“You could return. Marry again, have a heir of your loins.”

“I have found my true path in life, sir. A return to this place would choke me.”

“Your father would be horrified.”

“My father is dead, sir. I am the last of his line, and only Catherine’s son can carry on the name. Do you think I should turn him out to live in poverty?”

“No, no.” The baron bowed his head. “He is my grandchild, however odious his parentage.”

“Then raise him, sir. I would place him in your hands to raise in the proper way.”

“My lord?”

“Who else is there? I cannot stay. Unless you want him raised by servants, who else can teach him his duty? When he is older, he could come to me in Paris, serve the king. But he’s only six. Do you not want to do that?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Then it’s done. You take him, give him love, give him a sense of right and wrong, correct what Rénard has deformed. My manager, Guillame, can teach him about this estate, and you can bring him to stay as often as you wish. I will provide funds for whatever he needs, and hopefully one day, when La Fère is his, he will be a good man, a wise steward of his inheritance. The servants here will keep the place in good order, under my manager’s guidance.”

“My lord....” The man began to weep quietly. Athos stood silent and gave him his dignity. _Well, Catherine, I hope this suits you. If only you had acted according to your upbringing._

But then, Athos hardly acted according to his own, at least not now. He was an adulterer and a sodomite as well. He had no grounds to judge anyone any more.

He’d forgotten D’Artagnan’s presence, and startled when his lover touched him on the arm. “ _Monsieur le baron, monsieur le comte_ should rest. He isn’t recovered from his experiences.”

The baron wiped his eyes. “Of course. May I remain for a little longer, my lord?”

“As long as you wish. You may stay the night if you want. Father Prieur is to say a mass for her soul tomorrow. We should discuss where she is to be buried.”

“Here, my lord. Unless you wish otherwise.”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll be in the library. Come to me when you’re ready and we’ll draw up documents.”

D’Artagnan took Athos’s arm and led him to the library. He gave him more water and some of Aramis’s medicinal tea, and Athos endeavoured to rest while sitting upright. He refused to pass out here.

“That was well done,” D’Artagnan said once he was settled.

“Just the easiest arrangement, that’s all.”

D’Artagnan smiled at him. “The kindest, you mean.”

“I am not kind, as you well know.”

“Of course not, _monsieur le comte_.”


	5. Chapter 5

Treville delayed their departure for another two days, not for Athos’s sake, but to ensure Rénard’s men did not take revenge on the people of Pinon. For that reason he suggested that the rest of them stay two days beyond that, keeping an eye on the village. That allowed Athos to return almost to complete good health, and to see to Catherine’s interment in the La Fère family vault. Baron de Garouville took Philippe away with him when he returned home, and all that was left was to draw up papers making him the boy’s guardian in Athos’s absence. Athos also had a long discussion with Guillame to ensure the house was kept in good order and the servants were looked after without being allowed to run amok.

It was with a deep sense of relief that Athos mounted Roger and rode away from the house. Even such a short stay made him feel trapped and useless, being reminded of all his failures, and his regrets.

Porthos didn’t understand. “If I had a place as nice as this, I could stand a lot of lording.”

“I’d give you a month,” Aramis said, grinning at his friend. “Then you’d be starting fights with your butler and cheating your neighbours at cards.”

“Two weeks,” d’Artagnan said. “He’d be bored out of his mind in two weeks.”

“Nah.”

Athos smirked. “I think they have the right of it, my friend. Now, can we please put some distance behind us before noon?”

Paris stank worse than a dead dog’s rotting intestines. Athos inhaled the stench and pronounced, “Good to be home.”

“Still think I’d prefer your mansion,” Porthos grumbled. “If’n it was mine.”

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind. Perhaps we’ll discover you’re the long lost son of a noble and you can live out your days in splendour.”

Porthos snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

At the garrison, everything was quiet. The king had made no enquiries about the whereabouts of his Musketeers in Athos’s absence, and Treville was still too depressed by the whole matter to push it. Athos thought it was about time to remind the king he had a loyal and highly skilled regiment at his beck and call, and that he should use it. He and the others rode to the palace in their best uniforms and positioned themselves where the king and his courtiers were wont to stroll in the afternoon. Anne was with them, and though she was still playing a minx for his majesty, she sent him a small smile of relief. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, but they didn’t speak.

The king saw them arrayed at attention. “Athos? I don’t recall asking for your attendance.”

“No, your majesty. But we are your Musketeers and we remain at your service, as always.”

Rochefort scowled at his words. “His majesty has no need of you, Athos. Return to your garrison and wait for orders.”

“No, Rochefort, let them be. Actually, I do want your attendance tomorrow, for the eclipse.”

“Majesty?” Athos asked, confused. He had lost so much time lately.

“Come, come, man, surely you recall there will be an eclipse tomorrow. We are to attend a special entertainment by Marmion, the great astronomer, at the old fort. Be here in the morning, as usual.”

Athos bowed. “Of course, your majesty.”

They waited until the royal party had passed. D’Artagnan grinned. “Oh dear, the _comte de Rochefort_ doesn’t look at all pleased.”

“My heart bleeds for him,” Porthos said. “Just give me five minutes alone with the sod and I’ll teach him a thing or two about kidnapping our lieutenant.”

“Forget revenge. The important thing is that we do a good job tomorrow and impress the king,” Athos said.

Aramis took off his hat to scratch his head. “The Red Guard is no substitute for the Musketeers. We can remind him of that.”

“Yes, we will. Let’s go,” Athos said.

The morrow was bright and hot. Too hot. “You shouldn’t go, Athos,” Aramis warned. “Excessive heat is the worse thing for you right now.”

“His majesty won’t be happy.”

“He’ll be less happy if you drop dead in front of his party.”

“I’ll be fine. Stop fussing.”

But as they waited for the king to explain the way the eclipse would occur to his court, in a manner acutely disrespectful the queen, Athos realised he’d had to leave or else swoon in front of their majesties. He murmured to Aramis that he had to leave, and for them to carry on in his absence, then he rode back to the garrison and dunked his head in the horse trough to cool it. He intended to retreat to his room to rest, but spotting Treville standing on his balcony, staring sightlessly at the garrison yard, he couldn’t abandon his captain to his demons.

He fetched a bottle of decent wine and a cup, and brought it to the captain’s office. He found Treville looking mournfully at his best breastplate. “You'll soon be wearing it again.”

“I was a damn fool. I should have taken that position on the Council when the King offered it. He has Rochefort now. He doesn't need me.”

“You're still a Musketeer.”

“No. There'll be a new captain soon.” He took the wine Athos poured for him. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

“I’m not as recovered as I wish to be. I didn’t want to embarrass his majesty by fainting at his feet.”

Treville grunted. “Would he even notice?”

“Rochefort would ensure he did.”

Outside dogs began to howl. “The eclipse,” Athos said. Treville looked as if he hadn’t remembered any better than Athos had the previous day.

They went out on the balcony to watch the celestial event. Treville drank some of the wine Athos had brought, though not in any intemperate way. “Are you unfit for duty?” he asked as they leaned on the rail to stare at the increasing shadows.

“I fear so, if it’s in the full sun.”

“Pity Rénard’s dead. I’d like the pleasure of shooting him myself.” He turned to Athos. “You should return to your quarters and rest.”

“I have duties here.”

“I don't need watching over, if that's what you're doing.”

Athos smiled. “The idea never crossed my mind.”

The eclipse came to an end after a few minutes, the watchers in the yard moved on with their business, and Treville sighed. “This place has been my home for too long. It's time for a change.”

He went back inside the office, Athos following him. “Sir, I believe the king will change his mind—”

“Do you? With Rochefort pouring poison into his ear?”

“I was going to say, but if he doesn’t, there is a position for you at my estate.”

“I don’t need your charity, Athos.”

“Good, for I’m not offering any. The boy—my heir—needs a tutor. His grandfather is an old man, and may not live until the boy is of age. He needs someone to teach him the noble arts, and a few of the ignoble ones. I beg you to consider it, should his majesty not reconsider.”

Treville stared at Athos. “You could perform these duties yourself.”

“I’m not fit to raise a pig, let alone a child.”

Treville pursed his lips. “I’ll think about it. For now, I need to clear up my office and leave it in good order for the next captain. Which will likely be you.”

“I shall refuse.”

“Then it’ll be someone of Rochefort’s choosing.”

“Then the next captain will have do a lot of recruiting, for I won’t stay for that, and nor will most of the men.”

“Captains come and go, Athos.”

“Agreed. But a captain must command respect and loyalty, and I would wipe my arse with the face of anyone Rochefort appointed, before I’d salute it.”

That forced a laugh out of the captain. “And I thought I’d found you difficult to command at times.”

“Me? I’m a model of decorum.”

“I only keep you around to manage Aramis, you realise.”

“Of course I do.” They grinned at each other.

The captain was content to drink and listen to Athos recount his plans and hopes for the estate, and for the boy. Treville had made no further comment on Athos’s offer, which, in truth, he hoped the captain would never take up because the king had come to his senses. But Treville’s views on the matter were useful, and a distraction from thinking about the dismissal, which was all Athos wanted.

A half hour later, they heard a commotion in the yard. They went onto the balcony to see Anne, wearing only her underclothes, dismounting from a horse. “What are you doing here?” Treville demanded.

“We need to speak.”

She ran up the stairs and into Treville’s office. “Marmion has taken the king and the rest of them hostage.”

“How can we trust you?” Treville asked.

Athos held up his hand. “Sir, she did just save my life. Anne, what happened?”

“Aramis is dead. Marmion pushed him out of a window.” Athos’s fingers clenched on the back of the chair as she continued. “Marmion is playing some game of chance with the lives of all of them. I took a risk on the toss of a coin, and was allowed to go. But I don’t believe he intends the king and queen to live.”

“I'll gather the men,” Treville said.

Anne shook her head. “If they see a troop of Musketeers, he will kill the King.”

“How many men does he have?”

“Ten that I saw. Possibly more. We need to surprise them.”

“‘We’”?

“I know the way in. I’ll lead you.”

“All right,” Treville agreed. I'll keep them out of sight until I know the King is safe.“

The captain left. “Why are you staring at me?” Anne asked Athos.

“I thought you might take the chance to run away for good, if the king is to be killed.”

“And lose my position as mistress?”

Athos snorted. “I forgot. Thank you, by the way. Your warning saved my life.”

“Glad to hear it, but right now, can you find me something to wear?”

Athos asked one of the cadets to provide Anne with breeches and coat. “You don’t have to do this,” Athos said as she changed. “There will be a battle, the outcome far from sure.”

“I may be a convicted criminal and deceiver, Athos, but I’m no coward.”

Athos winced at her repeating his own words. “No, you are not.” He handed her a pistol. “But please stay out of the path of danger.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

He helped her mount a horse, and she led the men towards the fort. Athos did his best not to think of Aramis, dead, and Porthos and d’Artagnan at the mercy of a madman. Saving the king and queen was all that mattered for now. He could grieve later.

But he would sorely miss his romantic hero of a friend.

Anne took them to the back of the fort, and talked her way in past the locked gate, before killing the guard with breathtaking ruthlessness. Athos and Treville disposed of the other guards, then Anne led them through the corridors towards the main chamber where the king and queen were being held, or at least where they had been when Anne last saw them.

Athos heard a roar of pain, and instantly recognised from whose mouth it had been uttered. Moments later, the source joined them. “What was all that noise about?” he asked Porthos.

“I hurt my shoulder.”

“Is that all?” Porthos gave him a look.

Unfortunately Porthos was not alone, and even in this desperate situation, Rochefort could not forebear from poking Treville. “I thought you'd been dismissed.”

The captain answered coolly. “Until the King says otherwise, I'm still a Musketeer.”

“Then make yourself useful and give me a pistol.” Treville gave Rochefort one of his weapons and the man stalked off, as if he was leading the rescue. _Of course he did_ , Athos thought.

Porthos spotted Anne ahead of them. “What's she doing here?” he asked Athos as they hurried along behind her.

“She's helping us.”

“You'll have to explain that to me later.”

“She told us what was happening, and helped us get in to the fort.”

“What’s in it for her?”

“A live king, we hope.”

Athos spotted one of Marmion’s men, and threw his main gauche to kill him silently. He broke cover to retrieve his knife and barely missed being killed by his supposedly dead friend. Aramis pulled his pistol back with a look of relief at not having shot Athos.

“I heard you broke a window,” Athos said to him, pulling his main gauche from the dead man’s body and wiping it.

“Better that than my neck.”

There was better news to come, for Aramis had rescued the queen, the dauphin, and the child’s governess, who told them the king was still with Marmion in the main chamber. Athos told Aramis to take the women and child to safety, and to return. Then they went on to save his majesty. Treville took charge quite naturally, to Athos’s quiet pleasure. Rochefort, with unusual commonsense, made no comment.

But Anne had done all she needed to, so Athos pulled her back. “Stay here. You'll be safe.”

“You almost sound as though you care.”

“I’ve never deliberately tried to harm you either, Anne. Please stay.”

“No, I’m coming with you.”

She pulled away, and he could only follow her. Perhaps she didn’t trust them to safely rescue her meal ticket, but Athos rather thought it was more to do with enjoying the adventure. Anne would have made a fine soldier, had she been male.

They broke into the chamber, and caught the hostage takers by surprise. D’Artagnan and Constance, still alive but bound, took care of at least one guard, and Anne saved Athos’s life by shooting another who had him in his sights. The room was quickly secured. Rochefort went off in pursuit of Marmion himself, but Treville was rightly more concerned with getting his majesty to safety.

Unsurprisingly, thought disappointingly, the king gave credit for the rescue to Rochefort, the one who had done the least to secure it, and took out his anger and fright on d’Artagnan, and upon Anne, whom he dismissed from his presence and from the palace.

Anne stormed off in fury, rightfully disgusted with her treatment. Athos tried to stop her, because he had things to talk to her about which might make a difference, but she almost ran in her eagerness to be gone from the place. She was gone by the time he had reached the king’s carriage at the top of the small hill behind the fort. She would find him again, he was sure of it.

D’Artagnan was the last to make his way up behind the others. Athos looked forward to hearing his account of what had happened, preferably wrapped around his safe and sound lover in bed. Then he saw Constance picking her way back down the path to d’Artagnan.

Where they embraced. And kissed. The estrangement between them was very clearly and publicly over.

The queen was delighted, and so was Treville. Athos fixed a smile on his face, before turning away. Aramis, who had been smiling at the happy couple’s antics moments before, touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I need to return to the garrison. I’m not feeling well.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No need.”

But Aramis went with him anyway, and considering the numerous lacerations visible on his friend’s body, Athos was only too happy for him to go to the garrison infirmary. “I’ll come find you later,” Aramis said as their medic cleaned the cuts on his scalp.

“Please do not.” Athos turned on his heel and left before Aramis could begin arguing with him.

He lay on his bed, arm over his eyes, trying very hard not to think of anything at all. After a bit, he dozed, because it hadn’t been a total lie that he felt unwell. But it wasn’t the after-effects of Rénard’s mistreatment that made his chest ache, or his heart to feel as if it was tearing apart in his chest.

Later that afternoon, someone knocked at his door. He ignored it, hoping they would go away. “Athos, it’s me. Can I come in?”

Athos said nothing, but d’Artagnan opened the door anyway. “Aramis said you were sick.”

“I’m fine. You should be—” _With Constance._ “On duty.”

“Um, the captain said we had the rest of the day to ourselves. The king doesn’t need us. Obviously,” he added bitterly.

“His lack of gratitude to those who serve him best is hardly novel, d’Artagnan.” Athos still had his arm over his eyes and hoped d’Artagnan would take the hint and leave.

He didn’t. “Athos, I need to speak to you about what happened. With Constance.”

Reluctantly, Athos pushed himself up to a seated position because he wasn’t having this conversation lying on his back. “Nothing to discuss. She loves you. You love her. She wants you, and you want her. Go. Be together. Seize your chance for happiness, if you can.”

D’Artagnan turned wounded eyes on him, which was bloody unfair, considering. “But what about us?”

“There is nothing there any more. I set you free. Our relationship is condemned by the church and the law, so I’m ending it.”

“But I love you.”

“That is unimportant,” Athos said with more effort than he let d’Artagnan see. “Constance can, with the cooperation of the fates, give you legal love and children and happiness. She deserves that from you too. You can’t be with her and with me, so I am calling this to an end. It’s been...pleasant, but I no longer wish to pursue it. It’s too dangerous with Rochefort watching our every move.”

“Dangerous. You’re simply afraid?”

“Yes, d’Artagnan. I’m afraid. For you, for me, for our friends. So I say again, go to her, and leave me be.”

D’Artagnan wrung his hands. “Athos, please.”

“Go, I said. It’s not as if I don’t have other avenues to pursue now.”

D’Artagnan straightened in surprise. “Milady?”

“I _am_ a widower now, after all.” He hated the lie he was implying, but he had to drive d’Artagnan away now before anyone got too badly hurt. Anyone but him, at least.

“But she’s a murderer. An assassin.”

“Indeed. But still young enough to wed, bed, and get with child.”

“I don’t believe this. You’re lying.”

Athos shrugged. “What can I say? Things change. I loved her before you, after all.”

“So...that’s it. You want to be with her, not me.”

The hurt in his voice tore at Athos’s very soul. “I want you to go, and I’m free to do as I please. What I do is entirely my choice and none of your business.”

“As you wish.” D’Artagnan turned to go. “Was it all a lie between us?” he asked without facing Athos. “When you said you loved me?”

“I am, and always have been, your friend. And your brother. That was never a lie, I promise you.”

D’Artagnan nodded, then opened the door and left. Athos lay down again. Now he really felt ill.


	6. Chapter 6

D’Artagnan avoided him the next day, but then began to behave once more in a normal manner towards him. That may have been because Aramis had a little talk with him, after speaking to Athos first while cornering him in a tavern. Athos had not resumed drinking heavily, but he didn’t feel like spending his evening in his room either. It was too easy to imagine d’Artagnan visiting him there. His body remembered, even if his heart broke every time his mind did, and he could not relax, being on edge, waiting for that knock on the door.

“So this is where you’re sulking,” Aramis said, taking a seat across from him.

“I’m not sulking.”

“Nursing your wounds then.”

“I’m not doing that either. Why aren’t you with the others?”

“Because, my friend, I’m worried about you, and frankly, d’Artagnan is being tiresome, whining about you.”

“What have I done?”

“Thrown him over for Milady, he says.”

Athos drank some wine. “The boy has Constance now. He should let me get on with what I want to do.”

“Yes, well, d’Artagnan has many fine characteristics, but just occasionally he reveals his second worst fault.”

Athos shouldn’t have asked, but Aramis was waiting for him to do so, so he did. “Which is?”

“Being a selfish little brat who needs a spanking.”

Athos snorted, unable to hold in the laugh. “Yes, he can be.”

“But you did a good job of convincing him you plan to woo and marry Milady. I have to ask, though—have you lost your mind?”

“She _is_ a very attractive woman, and my first love, Aramis.”

“Yes, and if you still loved her, I’d encourage you to pursue her with all your strength. You don’t.”

“You’re very sure of that.”

“I am. Athos, some men can be in love with more than one person at a time. You’re not of that type. If you were still in love with Milady, you would not be still in love with d’Artagnan.”

“Perhaps I’m not.”

Aramis looked to the heavens—or at least, the ceiling—for help. “Yes, and perhaps the sun is eaten every night by a two-horned devil who farts it out at sunrise, but I don’t think so.”

“Think what you like, Aramis.” He refilled his drink. “You?”

Aramis asked the tavern maid for a cup and poured his own measure of wine. “What I think, my friend, is that you are still as in love with d’Artagnan as he is with you, but you’ve pushed him away because you think that’s best for him. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“So you lied to him.”

“I did not. I merely stated some facts and allowed him to draw conclusions which will help him move on. It’s for the best, Aramis. There’s no future for us, you know that. And you know what it’s like to be in that position.”

Aramis paused, then nodded. “I do, and I do understand. However, I’m tired of listening to him denigrate your good sense and taste, so I may or may not have a word with him. Do you object?”

“Would that stop you?”

“No.”

“There you are. I was about to leave, so I bid you goodnight.”

Aramis touched his wrist before he could rise. “One more thing— _are_ you about to renew your relationship with Milady? You might bring his majesty’s wrath down on you if you do.”

“That would not stop me if I was determined to do so. However, I am not. I do plan to try and help her out of this situation if I can. The king had been unfair, and it helps Rochefort’s manoeuvring. Neither pleases me.”

“Understood. Be careful, Athos.”

“Of Rochefort?”

“Of Milady.”

“She’s no danger to me. Now, goodnight, my friend.”

“Sleep well, Athos.”

Strangely enough, he did, for the first time in days. And the next day, d’Artagnan was noticeably more friendly and polite, so Aramis had done good work in two directions. Athos learned to school his reactions, and react with friendliness to friendly overtures. It would get easier with time, he hoped.

The king still did nothing to restore Treville to the captaincy, but he also did nothing to replace him, leaving the man in a strange limbo where he was still a Musketeer, but with no real role. Athos found it impossible to forgive the king for this slight to an old and loyal friend, but he hoped in time his majesty’s need of true allies would win out.

Meanwhile, the other Musketeers were back to being used for everything but as bodyguards. A week after the Marmion incident, Athos and his brothers were tasked with escorting the king’s cousin, Princess Louise of Mantua, to Paris from the Spanish border so she could be betrothed to the Swedish crown prince. A straightforward task, one might have predicted, but that prediction was foiled by a sudden ambush but an hour from Paris. The Musketeers killed all the assailants, so they could not be asked who’d hired them, but the presence of Spanish coins on one of them pointed to it being no coincidence.

When the archbishop was murdered while blessing the princess, it was certain—the Spanish were determined to stop the forthcoming marriage. The only clue as to who was orchestrating the attacks lay in the weapon used to kill the bishop—Boucher, an armourer of surpassing skill, but also a Huguenot and a survivor of the siege at La Rochelle, an event whose viciousness still sent shudders through the most seasoned soldier. Captain Treville suggested that Athos pose as one interested in commissioning a similar weapon, so he sent a message for Monsieur Boucher to come to the garrison for the purpose.

Before the man arrived, another came—to see the captain. The first Athos knew of it was Treville throwing the man out of his office in a temper and spitting angrily about Rochefort using him as an errand boy to fetch the king’s marriage gift to the princess. Insult though it undoubtedly was intended to be, Athos thought there might be an opportunity there for his captain.

“Deliver this gift directly to the Queen herself,” he suggested. “Let her see your devotion and loyalty, even in the face of provocation.”

But Treville rejected the suggestion, saying, “I never had any talent for such games.” Athos shrugged. The captain might change his mind once he had the gift in his hands. “The regiment will need a new captain soon. I could recommend you.” Athos had no reply to that. Treville knew his feelings on the subject, and there was no position he wanted less, especially for this reason. “I'm finished here. It's time you all accepted that.”

Athos shook his head as the captain rode away. Today was not a good day to talk to him about regaining his position, but surely there had to be a way to remind their majesties of just who the king was tossing away. Jean Treville had served the king since his majesty was but a child, and Marie de Medici had been regent. No one living could claim the degree of loyalty and service to the crown as personally as their captain did.

Boucher arrived just then, so Athos had to drag his thoughts back from Treville and onto the assassin hunting the princess. He took the man to the captain’s office and confronted him about the weapon he had made, which had ended the archbishop’s life. The plot suddenly became much more confused when Boucher revealed that the weapon, made for his own pleasure, had ended up in the king’s armoury—and must have come from there to be used in the murder.

Once Boucher was dismissed, Aramis and Athos discussed what they had learned. “The king himself desperately wants this marriage, this alliance. Who at the palace would want to frustrate it?” Aramis asked.

“I don’t know. But first we need to find out if it was one of the Red Guard who used the crossbow. That means talking to the ever delightful _comte de Rochefort_.”

“First let me make some peppermint tea.”

Athos frowned at Aramis. “Whatever for?”

“It’s good for nausea.”

Athos thought Aramis was joking, but after Rochefort’s ill-tempered and unhelpful rejection of the faintest insinuation of any involvement of the Red Guard, Athos would have welcomed his tea, and a bottle of Armagnac to follow.

Rochefort interrupted his tirade of outrage to stop Anne in the process obeying the king’s edict and removing her possessions from the palace. Rochefort went out of his way to humiliate and abuse her, and even if Athos had known nothing of the woman he was doing this to, he would have wanted to cut his throat for such a display.

Rochefort ordered two guards to escort Anne—without her things—from the palace. Athos went after them and sent the guards away. Anne obviously expected more humiliation. “Come to gloat, my love? At my being shamed and penniless?”

“No.” He took his money pouch from his pocket. “This is all I have on me, but I will provide more. Find a room, stay away from the palace, and contact me when you are safe.”

“Why? I thought you’d be delighted at my fall from grace.”

“Do you really know me so little? After all this time? You’ve saved my life, not to mention the king’s life, twice in a month, and you saved d’Artagnan’s too. You have my gratitude at the very least.”

She weighed the money in her hand. “What if I want to leave Paris?”

“Then do so, but tell me where I can send you funds. Anne, you remember I bought your brother’s house when he died with no heir but you? That money is still in escrow, waiting for you to claim it.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “But I can’t go back...or can I?”

“I can’t talk now, and there’s an assassin on the loose so I have no time, but come to me later. I promise I will not abandon you.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s what you are lawfully entitled to. Go, avoid Rochefort. Give me a few days to try and end this business. If you can’t find shelter, come to the garrison. It’s better than nothing.”

She stared at him. “Thank you. I wish you good hunting.”

“Be safe, Anne. Go.”

She tucked the pouch carefully away, and gave him a tremulous smile, before turning and walking out of the palace with her head held high. Athos would have gone with her if the matter in hand was even the slightest bit less urgent. But all he could do was return to the garrison with the others, and wait for Treville to discuss what steps to take next.

Unfortunately their captain was in no condition to discuss anything. He’d been ambushed outside Monsieur Arnaud’s studio in Rue Jacob where he’d been about to collect the royal gift, and only the urgently applied, dedicated skills of Aramis, Professor Lemay, and Constance saved his life. Aramis remained to tend to their wounded captain. Athos and Porthos went to Rue Jacob to find out more about the attack on Treville’s life.

Treville’s lifeblood was on the street outside Arnaud’s studio, but Monsieur Arnaud’s lifeblood was all over him, they discovered. His distraught assistant alerted them to the theft of the portrait of Princess Louise, the intended gift. The draught sketches revealed why the portrait had not been allowed to reach the Louvre.

“This isn't the woman we're guarding at the palace,” Porthos said, before realising the real target of the attack at the church had been the archbishop, not the princess. “But why assassinate a man of God?”

“The archbishop wasn't just a priest,” Athos said. “He was a senior member of the King's Council.” That mean Chancellor Dupré, on his way to the palace at that very, was in grave danger from the fake Princess Louise and whoever was behind her at the Louvre.

They rode at their best speed to the palace, and arrived just as the chancellor’s carriage drew up. The ‘Princess’s’ crossbow attack was thwarted, and Athos and Aramis managed to get the chancellor to safety inside the palace, while Porthos gave chase to the assassin’s confederate, Francesco. Athos and Aramis found the ‘princess’ in the bowels of the palace, where d’Artagnan had pinned her down. Athos and Aramis took her into custody, while d’Artagnan ran back up into the palace to find out what mischief the woman had alluded to.

Once the woman was handed over to the palace guard, Athos ran in search of d’Artagnan. He and the others found Constance’s husband dying of a crossbow bolt to the torso. The man died as they watched, and a distraught d’Artagnan made them all promise not to tell Constance before he spoke to her of it.

Aramis said prayers over the dead man, while Porthos went in search of more guards to take charge of the body. When Aramis was done, he looked up at Athos. “This changes everything for them.”

“I know.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know yet. Forget about me. Constance will need our support. And so will d’Artagnan.”

Aramis stood and put his hand on Athos’s shoulder. “So will you, my brother.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Of course.”

They allowed d’Artagnan to lead the way back to the garrison, where Constance was attending to their captain. She told them Treville would be fine, but the three of them walked away to allow d’Artagnan privacy to impart the news.

Moments later, the sound of Constance’s sobbing filled the yard.

****************

Though Chancellor Dupré had been kept from harm, the duc de Barville was missing, presumed dead, and a third councillor, the Archbishop Jacqueme definitely deceased. Athos counted the entire affair a failure, despite the saving of their captain’s life and the capture of the assassins. Unfortunately both assassins were dead, ‘Louise’ by an unknown hand, and their employer still undetermined. Worse still, Rochefort had done so well out of the matter as to be offered the position of First Minister—a fox in the henhouse situation if Athos ever saw one.

And of course now Constance Bonacieux was now free to marry d’Artagnan, although with the selfishness of youth, d’Artagnan was too impatient to let the poor woman grieve in a seemly fashion or even simply adjust to an enormous change in her life. Athos wasn’t sure if he counted this development as a win or a failure, but it was unsettling and upsetting, and he was tired of Aramis’s looks of concern.

The only positive development was the end of the strain between Porthos and the captain, which had been a feature of their relationship since Porthos had learned of General de Foix’s will. Treville had finally told Porthos who his real father was—a disgraced marquis, as it happened. Aramis was the most astonished of the four of them that his silly joke of weeks before had turned out to be true. Athos, taking charge of the regiment by default with Treville still recovering, had sent the two them off to see Belgard, where he hoped Porthos would learn some answers to the questions regarding his childhood.

And even that apparently good news for his friend was tainted by learning his half-sister and her husband were nothing but common procurers. Belgard himself was a debaucher of abducted young women, who had wanted the infant Porthos and his mother dead and out of his life because of the inconvenience a threatened disinheritance would have caused him. If not for de Foix and Treville, Porthos would never have lived past his first month. They could have done better by him, for certain, but they had done far more than Porthos’s father ever had.

Almost as soon as Aramis and Athos had finished consoling Porthos over the matter, Constance sent a message for the Musketeers to come to the palace urgently. Rochefort had tried to violate the queen, who had retaliated by half-blinding him. This should have been enough to have the man hanged and out of their lives forever, but Rochefort had a card up his sleeve—a letter he himself had induced the queen to write to her brother while the king was missing, having been abducted by Sebastien Lemaitre.

And more than that. Aramis told Athos as they returned to the garrison that he was sure that Rochefort knew his and the queen’s secret. The others now had to be told, Athos realised, and told them to assemble in Treville’s office. Before he could broach the subject, Treville handed him a note. “Milady wants to see you. I took the liberty of sending for her.”

“We don’t have time.”

“She says she has information vital to your safety and that of the queen, Athos.”

“She was at the palace,” d’Artagnan said. “Perhaps she knows about Rochefort.”

“Perhaps. But there’s something else to discuss first.”

The conversation that followed was painful for all concerned. Porthos’s anger was the greatest, for he had been betrayed worse than all the others. He had concealed nothing, had acted as an honourable friend to Athos and Aramis, the men he trusted most in the world, yet both had deceived him. Athos thought he would punch Aramis, but in the end Porthos hugged him, forgiving even this out of his love for his brother.

Treville was less inclined to forgive, and looked as if his head might explode from anger at the news about the queen and the dauphin. D’Artagnan remained calm but acid in his remarks. Athos supposed it might have gone worse. It didn’t change the fact that Aramis—all of them in fact—was implicated in treason and Rochefort would undoubtedly seek to destroy them through it.

A cadet came to the door. “Milady de Winter, sir.”

Anne swept in without waiting to be admitted, and stared at the assembled Musketeers. “Am I so fearsome you need reinforcements, Olivier?”

Treville asked her to sit. “You said you had important information regarding the queen.”

“Rochefort believes Aramis slept with her...ah, I see by your reaction this is not news. He tried to recruit me to find evidence. I don’t think he has any yet.”

“Is that all?” Athos asked.

“No. The truly important information you lack is that Rochefort is a Spanish spy. He has been in the pay of the Madrid spy-master Vargas ever since his return.”

Treville hissed in a breath. “Dear God. This isn’t one of your lies?”

“Why would I lie about that? The man is dangerously insane. He needs to be stopped, for all our sakes.”

“Anne, how long have you known?” Athos asked.

“Since he hired me to kill Ambassador Perales.”

D’Artagnan launched himself away from the wall. “The captain was dismissed because of you.” He threw his hands up in disgust and shot a sour look at Anne and Athos both.

“That’s not the issue now,” Treville said. “What else do you know?”

“He hired the woman pretending to be Princess Louise and her lover to kill the chancellor. He means to destroy you all by any means necessary. I suggest leaving France as soon as you can.” She looked at Athos as she spoke.

“The queen is in danger,” Treville said. “We need to get her away from him.”

“Anne, will you help us?”

“Only for a hefty fee, of course,” Aramis said.

She turned on him, truly angry. “You speak to me of morals, Musketeer? While the king dandles another man’s child on his knee?”

“All right, I’ve heard enough,” Porthos said. “Sir, just let me know what _you_ want us to do. Aramis, I want to talk to you.” He walked out, followed by a chastened Aramis.

Anne rolled her eyes. “Will you help?” Athos asked.

“Yes. Not for a fee, but I’ll need help to get away when you succeed—or fail.”

“I’d do that in any event,” Athos said, meeting her questioning look.”

“Athos, have you forgotten who she is? And what she has done?” D’Artagnan’s colour was high and his voice too loud. The captain shot him a look to try and quell him.

“Another one with dirty hands who lectures about other people’s failings,” Anne said without turning. “As if infidelity and adultery twice over are mere nothings.”

“At least I’ve never _murdered_ anyone.”

“D’Artagnan, be quiet,” Athos snapped.

“Captain, you can’t possibly trust her.”

“We need her help. Can you get proof of Rochefort’s activities, Milady?” Treville asked.

“All his papers are in Richelieu’s old office. I believe there may be something there.”

“We need to get the queen out of the palace first,” Athos said.

“Agreed,” Treville said. “And after that, Milady and you can search his papers. Milady, you’ll do this?”

“Yes, but I suggest we wait until this evening.”

D’Artagnan grimaced at her, then turned to Athos. “Can I talk to you?”

“Not now.”

“No, now, Athos.”

Athos looked over at Treville, who shrugged. “Make it quick.”

“In _private_.”

“Don’t mind me,” Anne said. “I’m sure there’s nothing you can say I haven’t heard before.”

“Look, you—” D’Artagnan shut his mouth and walked outside. Porthos and Aramis were on the stairs. D’Artagnan pushed past them and stood at the bottom waiting for Athos to follow.

“I realise you don’t trust Anne but we do not have time for your grudges, d’Artagnan,” Athos said when he joined him. “The queen is in danger.”

“And so is Constance! You’re prepared to trust a woman who may still be working for Rochefort, who might only be waiting for us to give her the evidence he needs to bring...a certain person down, and yet it’s not just the queen he’ll destroy, it’s everyone who supports her. He’s already tried to kill her once. Don’t you care, Athos?”

Athos gripped his arm and didn’t care if it hurt the lad. “If you think I would allow the smallest harm to come to Constance, then you don’t know me at all.”

“Maybe I don’t, if you’re really prepared to marry that snake. If you think she’s a substitute for me, then you don’t know _me_ at all.”

Athos let go of him. “I’m going upstairs, and I will take whatever help Anne is prepared to give us to save the queen and Constance and anyone else Rochefort threatens. If you think this is all about your petty slights, I suggest you stay out of it. You’re unfit to be part of this mission. Go.”

D’Artagnan stood still. “You’re not keeping me from this.”

“You’ll do as I order, Musketeer. I’m your lieutenant.”

“Treville—”

“Appointed me as temporary leader of the garrison. So leave, unless you can hold your tongue and follow orders.”

Aramis and Porthos were watching them argue in hissed angry whispers, and other Musketeers were paying too much attention. Athos turned on his heel and walked back to the stairs. “He might have a point,” Aramis said.

Athos glared. “You are also not in a position to argue about this, since you’re the main reason we’re even in this mess.”

“Aramis didn’t make Rochefort a spy,” Porthos said in a low, angry rumble, his eyes glinting dangerously.

“No, he just gave him something to spy _on_. We need you inside.”

Treville was distinctly unamused when Athos and the others returned. “Are we all quite finished with our personal tantrums, gentlemen?”

“I believe so,” Athos said, avoiding Anne’s smirk.

D’Artagnan walked in, his expression blank. “Did I miss anything?”

Athos gave him a considered look. “Not yet.”

Aramis cleared his throat. “There’s a back way to the queen’s apartments. We can smuggle her and the dauphin out that route.”

“Not the dauphin,” Anne said. “Rochefort removed him from the queen this morning.”

“How _dare_ he?” Aramis said through gritted teeth.

“The queen’s position is weak. He’s been undermining it for some time.”

“And you were nothing to do with _that_ ,” D’Artagnan muttered.

“A married man doesn’t stray if the marriage is sound,” she said, staring back at him.

“Enough!” Treville glared at d’Artagnan. “Are you prepared to work with her or not?”

“Yes, I’ll work with her.”

“Then cease these remarks. They’re unhelpful. Aramis, that back way is still guarded, yes?”

“We need a distraction.”

“Leave that to me,” Anne said. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she added at Aramis’s look. “If I wanted to bring you down, I could have done it half a dozen ways by now and without inventing a thing. Now, are we going ahead or not?”

Treville answered. “If you can get us past the guards, I, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan will take the queen and anyone else in her household at risk from Rochefort to the nunnery at Bourbon-Les-Eaux. Athos, you and Milady will then seek what evidence you can from Rochefort’s office, and then Athos, you join us at the nunnery.”

“And if we find nothing?” Athos asked.

“Then at least the queen will be safe. Even Rochefort would not dare harm the dauphin or the king.”

Anne touched her neck at Treville’s words. “Anne?” Athos asked. Had Rochefort attacked her?

“Nothing, just...I’d be cautious about predicting the limits of Rochefort’s ambition. Or his boldness.”

“Understood.” Treville got to his feet. “Very well. We have three hours before dark. I suggest you all get some rest, and make sure you are prepared for the ride to Bourbon-Les-Eaux. “Milady, you may stay in the garrison if you wish. In my office, if you like.”

“I’m sure Olivier would prefer that to his own rooms.”

“Whichever you wish, Anne,” Athos said, his tone deliberately colourless.

“Captain, please excuse me,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll meet you all in the stables at sunset.” Treville nodded and d’Artagnan left.

Aramis put his hat back on his head. “We have preparations to make then. Captain,” he said, tipping his hat quickly, and he and Porthos left together.

“Whatever did I say?” Anne asked coolly, fanning herself.

The captain rolled his eyes. “Athos, please see that Milady is given food and drink, and anything else she needs.”

“I’ll have it sent up. Excuse me.”

Athos went downstairs and to the mess, where he arranged for a meal and wine to taken to the captain’s office. Then he crossed the courtyard, intending to go to his quarters for a brief period to reflect and think. He caught sight of d’Artagnan leaning on the stable wall, out of sight to anyone except anyone going to his room, but the lad didn’t appear to be waiting for him. He was lost in thought—miserable thoughts, it seemed.

Athos walked over to him. “We will save Constance from danger, I swear, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m just so worried about everything. Her. Aramis. You.”

“Me? You don’t need to worry about me marrying Anne.”

“It’s not that.” D’Artagnan lifted his head. “If she betrays you, you’ll die. She did it for the cardinal. She could do it for Rochefort, especially to save her neck. Look at the lovers she’s already killed.”

“Those lovers were not aware of her nature. I am. You shouldn’t worry about me. Constance is your concern now.”

“You think I don’t care, Athos? Do you think I stopped loving you when you cast me off?”

“I didn’t cast you off, I sent you—”

“Away. Yes. Aramis explained why. I’m not stupid. But this plan depends on a woman I don’t trust, who only acts out of self-interest, and who’s a proven liar and deceiver. She’s not one of _us_ , Athos. Swear to me that you believe she would never betray you if it suited her better than not.”

“She never has betrayed me, even with her grudge against us. If it helps, she needs me to give her a great deal of money she’s owed from her brother’s estate. If I die, she gets nothing. That’s an excellent reason to keep me alive.”

“Rochefort can promise her more.”

“He won’t. He’s a bully. He forces people, he doesn’t charm or bribe them.” Athos put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Come on, you should be getting ready. Get a couple of hours sleep, if you can.”

D’Artagnan tilted his head so it was resting on Athos’s hand. “I miss you,” he said, his voice breaking.

“And I you. But I am still your friend, and you mine.” He kissed d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Go.”

D’Artagnan gave him a weak smile and pulled himself off the wall. Athos watched him go, selfishly wanting to call him back, but knowing that the lad needed the rest and not to be confused by Athos’s turbulent emotions.

He spoke to their stable master about an extra horse for Anne, then saw to the supplies. She would have to stay in the garrison, he supposed, but what if they were unable to return? He had to speak to her again.

D’Artagnan was right to be worried, but not about Anne betraying them. Athos was ready to bet his life on the chance she would not do so. But that didn’t mean Anne wouldn’t harm him in other ways. Perhaps it was sending d’Artagnan away and knowing that the intimacy and comfort the man had offered so generously was now over for good, but Athos found himself responding to Anne’s presence physically in a way he hadn’t in quite some time. She was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more alluring because she now dressed in such finery and with such art as she had not while at Pinon. Even knowing the things she had done out of pure self-interest could not dull his ardour completely.

And yet Athos could not imagine being in a relationship with her again. Anne had no code of honour, no shared morality he could depend on, and mere sexual attraction had never been enough for him. Yet her bravery, her intelligence, her often black humour were things he had always valued, and whatever crimes she had committed, being a tedious companion had not been one of them.

She was no substitute for d’Artagnan, and as she had become, was not worth to him even a quarter what any of his brothers were. But Athos was no great catch himself. Perhaps he rated himself too highly, in rejecting her forever.

Not that he had any business thinking of this when her majesty and Constance, even the king and dauphin, were in mortal peril.

He took himself back up the stairs to the captain’s office. Treville wasn’t there. “He had things to arrange elsewhere,” Anne reported. She had finished her meal, and was now sipping her wine with apparently nothing else to occupy her. “Have you come to keep me company? Or perhaps deliver a stern warning about not playing games with your friends, or betraying them.”

“Would it do any good?”

“No. It would only irritate me into considering it. Wine?”

Athos shook his head, and sat down. “We need to talk about afterwards, Anne. If the queen can’t return to the palace, we will have to remain with her, possibly for weeks, months. I had thought you could stay here for a few days, but longer than that...you need a refuge. Where are you staying now?”

“At an inn, with the money you gave me. I have nothing else.”

“There’s no time to draw funds....” Athos considered. “You could go to La Fère. I would manage to get a message and funds to you there.”

“And what will the delightful Catherine say about that?”

He stared in surprise. “You don’t know? She’s dead.”

She blinked. “Dead? How?”

He told her what had happened in Pinon, and how Rénard, his son, and Catherine had all met their ends. “You really did save my life.”

“I had no idea he had such plans. I merely thought the two of them together, with Rochefort, would mean trouble for one of us, if not both.”

“Whatever your motive, I’m grateful. I wish Catherine hadn’t had to die. I had no intention of removing her from La Fère. She could have birthed as many bastards as she wanted.”

“Rénard wanted your land.”

“He only had to wait for me to die. Musketeers aren’t renowned for long lives. Then he could have married her and had the lot.”

She made a face. “Serves him right for being greedy and hasty. I won’t cry a tear for her though. She had everything I wanted.”

“Much good that it did her.”

She held his gaze until he was forced to look away. “So what have you done with the house?”

“It’s open with minimal staff, though it’s unlikely to be used much, if ever. You could live there as long as you want.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something? I killed Thomas.”

“Oh yes, I’m certainly in danger of forgetting _that_.”

She had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry. But other people will remember too.”

“Let them. Because I was the law then, and I am now, and if I say you’re innocent, you are. Rénard was the one who would have pushed hardest to pursue you, and he’s dead. You’ll be safe enough for a few weeks if you’re discreet. I’ll give you a letter for Piquet, vouching for your good character.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll be creative. Also, a letter for my lawyer here in Paris which might be enough to release those funds to you. I’ll draw as much money as I can for you in any case.”

“Why, Olivier? Why do all this for me?”

“Because I owe you a debt, I told you.”

She looked towards the window. “I wouldn’t be so generous if our roles were switched.”

“That isn’t important. We should leave this office so the captain can have some rest. You can do so in my rooms. I’ll write the letter in the mess.”

“You could write them while I lie down. We could lie down together.”

Dear God, her eyes had always bewitched him, as had her voice. “Anne, no.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow. “Why not? Everyone knows d’Artagnan is to wed Constance. The palace gossips were most intrigued by the sudden, not to mention convenient death of her husband, and her acceptance of her lover’s hand.”

Athos kept his features carefully neutral. “I have things to do. Let me show you my rooms.”

She held out her hand for him to help her to stand, which he did, dropping it as soon as he could. She swept out of the room haughtily, leaving him to take the tray down after her. He had no intention of being trapped in a small space with her ever again.


	7. Chapter 7

A few hours later, finding himself trapped in a small place with Anne, Athos remembered his resolution, but in all the turmoil and high emotions, it didn’t seem as important as it had that afternoon. The queen was at last out of danger, but leaving Constance behind to see to the dauphin’s welfare and placate his mother so she would consent to escape the palace, did not sit well with him, or the others. For the sake of the queen, they all held their tongues, but Porthos’s look at Athos was enough to confirm his unease. D’Artagnan’s unhappiness was written in every line of his body, but good soldier that he was, he worked with the others to get the queen out without being seen.

The captain took the queen and the others all safely away from the palace, while Athos and Anne hid in the bowels of the palace, waiting for an opportunity to go to Rochefort’s office and search.

“This is more my job than yours,” she noted.

“What is?”

“Lurking in shadows.”

“I seem to do little else lately.”

“Then perhaps I should apply to become a Musketeer.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a profession that involves more lying on your back?”

“Don’t be catty, Olivier. While you claim Aramis as a friend, you have no cause to judge my sexual morals.”

He turned to her. “I wasn’t. I merely thought...your skills in that area are clearly excellent.”

“I can shoot as well as you can, ride as hard, and hold my own with a sword.”

“Yes. While wearing a dress and being ‘womanly’. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“Oh.” She made a face. “I’m not used to people failing to despise me for what I do. Not used to _you_ failing to hate me for it.”

“I don’t have a quarrel with your occupation, Anne, so much as the causes it’s used for. And some of your methods.”

“Oh my, I sense some equivocation. Has the noble _comte de La Fère_ been asked to do things below his moral standards?”

Athos winced. “Once or twice. It’s been a difficult year.”

“And yet you could retire to your estate and lead a blameless life. What of the rest of us?”

“I disdain no one for being poor, as you well know. But it’s possible to be moral even in poverty.”

“Oh yes? Asked your friend Porthos what he did before he joined the Army, have you? He’s something of a legend at the Court.”

“He never—”

She put her fingers over his lips. “Don’t speak of what you do not know, my lord. I’m sure there are deeds he’d prefer you knew nothing of. The difference between us is that my sins are public.”

Athos started to protest, to say Porthos and Anne were very different in their moral outlook, but he stopped. What did he really know of Porthos’s background? And Anne was a woman, with choices denied her that Porthos had. “Porthos would not, has not scorned me for my feelings for another man.”

“Porthos is not your spurned lover, Olivier.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but went still. “The guards have left. Now’s our chance.”

She led him to Richelieu’s old office, and Athos couldn’t hold back the shiver of fear that trespassing on this once forbidden realm gave him. They searched quickly but nothing stood out. Chatter outside the room gave them alarm.

“This is Richelieu’s secret cabinet,” Anne murmured, opening a door through the shelves. “Pray Rochefort doesn’t know of it.” Athos quickly extinguished the candle and followed her into the hiding place, just moments before Rochefort came into the office.

Hidden in the dark, face to face, scarcely daring to breathe, Athos was far too conscious of the smell of her skin, and the smouldering depths of her green eyes, so close to his. As Rochefort left, her forehead brushed his chin, and without thinking, he sought her mouth, drowning in the taste of it, the lushness of her lips, the way her hands curled around him like a long remembered dream.

But then he came back to himself and pushed away, and she sneered at him, half scornful, half angry. She didn’t have to say a word. He was already damning himself for his stupidity.

She walked away to the door, keeping watch for Rochefort’s return. There were no documents, no evidence for Athos to take, but the seal and letter he removed could prove useful. Out in the corridors, the alarm had been raised. The king had been poisoned. The panic this put the courtiers into allowed Athos and Anne to move without hindrance, but Anne convinced him not to stay. She said this was Rochefort’s plan, and she of all people would know his mind on this.

He took Anne back to the garrison, to his own rooms, and bid her wait three days for him there, and if he did not return or send other instructions, to hie herself to La Fère until she felt she could stay no longer. “If I can, I will come for you, or at least send you a message. But I can do no more now. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been generous, considering your distaste for me. Should you not rest a few hours, Olivier? There’s no moon tonight because of the clouds. You can’t ride hard in the dark.”

He considered her advice. The church bells had just struck ten. If he waited until five in the morning, he could be at the nunnery by nine or ten at the latest. On the other hand, the news he had was urgent. The whole situation was urgent.

“If Roger breaks a leg, or you do, what good will that do the queen?”

He sighed. She could always read his mind. “Very well. But Anne, to rest only. I’m sorry about...before.”

“Yes, you made your regret immediately apparent.” She prevented his attempt to explain with a narrow-eyed look. “However, if you can keep your hands to yourself, your virtue will suffer nothing from mine. I could even sit in the chair all night if you wish.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stripped to his small clothes, and allowed her, now dressed only in her linen shift, to make herself comfortable on the narrow bed before joining her.

“Perhaps we should put your sword between us.”

He snorted. It took him back to them reading together, stolen moments in the stables on a warm afternoon. “Fancy yourself Yseult, do you?” Her twisted smile told him she remembered too.

“I think the queen is Yseult in this story, And Aramis, our Tristan.”

“I see him more as Lancelot.”

She went still. “Except in that story, they all died, Olivier. The king, the queen, and Lancelot too.” Athos grimaced, remembering the lives at stake here were real. “Get some rest,” she said quietly. She turned to face him, but her eyes were closed and her hands didn’t wander.

Lying with her was easier even than with d’Artagnan, and as Athos stared at the ceiling of his small room, he wished he could want the woman beside him who wanted him so badly, as much as he wanted that young man worrying himself sick over his endangered love. But loving Anne would always be mixed with shame and anger, while d’Artagnan was a clean and unsullied need, for all that the former was allowed by God and the law, and the latter would see him hanged and cast into hell. Athos was sick of compromising his happiness for second best, for what was apparently easiest.

“Olivier, sleep,” Anne murmured. “You’ll be no use to anyone if you don’t.”

He grunted in agreement and closed his eyes. He hadn’t really expected to sleep, but he woke with a jerk to find Anne leaning over him, and heard her say, “The bells have tolled the half hour past four.” He’d slept far longer than he’d hoped.

“Thank you,” he whispered. By the time he sat up, she had lit a candle to help him find his clothes, so he could dress.

“Here.” She handed him a small loaf of bread, and a water bottle. Neither of these things had been in his room before they went to sleep.

“How did—?”

Her smile was pitying. “I stole it from your kitchen. Did you forget what I do to earn my keep?”

“Apparently I did.”

He offered her some of the bread, and she took it to nibble. “Do you think the king is still alive?” she asked as he drank some water and then rose to fasten on his weapons’ belt.

“It’s too quiet,” Athos said. “The bells would be tolling, there would be people about. But that’s not to say the dawn will find him in good health.”

“He’s a fool of a man, but he’s a French fool. I don’t want to be ruled by the Spanish.”

“Then we must not let that happen.” He cupped her cheek. “Thank you. Get some more sleep. And keep your wits about you.”

“Do I ever not?”

“No, you always do.”

A single lamp in the garrison yard lit his way to the stables in the half-hour before dawn. By the time he had saddled Roger and led him out through the garrison gate, the sky was lightening barely perceptibly. He kept Roger at walking pace until he could see the road, and then he urged the stallion into a canter.

The night’s rest had not brought his friends or his queen any peace of mind, and the mood became fractious as they discussed how best to deal with the latest development. Athos and Treville wanted the queen kept far away from the palace, unless she had an army at her back. D’Artagnan, rightly, pointed out that this could lead to civil war, and supported her majesty’s wish to return. This led to an ugly exchange between Porthos and d’Artagnan, Porthos claiming that d’Artagnan was thinking only of Constance, and d’Artagnan throwing back at him that at least Constance had had the courage to stay. Athos stayed silent, for both were wrong, both well intentioned, and if there was ever a time when his brothers needed to be united, it was now.

The queen insisted on making her own decision, which was to return. But they had one arrow in their quiver left to use—a letter to the spymaster Vargas, using Rochefort’s seal and by great good fortune, a nun who could imitate the man’s handwriting well enough to pass. Porthos offered to be the one to carry it, to lure Vargas out of hiding and capture him. It was a desperate gamble and it could easily be throwing Porthos’s life away for no gain, but they had to try.

While Porthos and Aramis prepared for Porthos’s solitary mission, Athos took d’Artagnan aside. “Your lady has the heart of a soldier and the soul of a lioness. She could not leave the dauphin friendless any more than you could turn your back on one of us in a fight.”

“I should have stayed. I wasn’t needed here, I could have—”

“You _were_ needed. And it would have taken more than you to protect her. The palace is fevered, there are guards every where, Rochefort is in almost complete control. He has no reason to hurt her, but he hates the Musketeers. You would have endangered her life by staying.”

D’Artagnan nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. He’d had no sleep at all, Athos was quite sure. He put his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Come and wish Porthos luck, show her majesty a brave and cheerful face.”

D’Artagnan rubbed at his nose. “I don’t feel either of those things, Athos. I wish Porthos was taking one of us with him.”

“I too, but his reason is sound. So, wash your face, and remember we serve the queen of France in her most desperate need. It is an honour and a privilege, one Constance shares in too.”

D’Artagnan gave him a sad smile, then went off to do as he had been told. And at least Porthos left with his brother’s hand offered in friendship, and kind words between them.

It was the last time that day that Athos felt the least glimmer of hope. A message from Aramis’s paramour, the dauphin’s governess, led them all straight into a trap, and to Athos’s horror, Constance was not safe, as he had thought, but condemned to death. The harmless Professor Lemay had already been sacrificed to Rochefort’s evil madness. The queen was forced from their protection, Aramis taken into custody, and Athos, with Treville guarding his back, only barely managed to extract d’Artagnan to go find Constance before the guards threw them out of the palace.

“Dear Mother of God,” the captain muttered as they left to find d’Artagnan.

“Aramis is lost,” Athos said.

“I fear so. And the queen. I never imagined...had I thought Rochefort capable of this, I would have keep her majesty away by force.”

Athos thought of Anne’s warning regarding Rochefort. None of them had taken it seriously enough.

“D’Artagnan!” Treville spotted the lad first where the guards had thrown him outside the gates of the palace. They ran to his side, Athos afraid the guards had actually kicked him to death. Only the low moan when Treville tried to move him, gave any evidence of life.

“We have to get him back to the garrison. Athos, bring the horses.”

Athos cast a last look at d’Artagnan’s bleeding, battered face, then ran to find their mounts. D’Artagnan was barely conscious when he returned, so Treville helped Athos haul him up onto Roger so Athos could hold him in place. They galloped to the garrison, and had to push their way past anxious Musketeers wanting to know what was happening at the palace, and what orders they had.

“Stay vigilant, prepare your weapons!” Treville shouted as he and Athos carried d’Artagnan to the infirmary. “I’ll return to speak to you all soon.”

The garrison medic tsked over the state d’Artagnan was in, but since the lad wasn’t dead and wasn’t unconscious, didn’t seem too worried. “I’ll handle this, sir,” Athos said. “You should speak to the men.”

“Don’t go anywhere. We’re not done yet.”

Athos nodded, though he wasn’t sure the captain was right. He watched the medic check under d’Artagnan’s doublet and shirt for anything worse than bruises, but it was the head injury which was causing the worst symptoms. The Red Guards had certainly _tried_ their best to kill him. Athos wanted to find the bastards and return the favour of a good kicking, but right now he needed d’Artagnan awake and aware.

“Olivier?”

Athos turned. “Anne.” At least she was safe.

“What happened?” She sat beside him, but paid no attention to the medic’s poking at the cut on d’Artagnan’s head.

“It’s a disaster. The queen has been betrayed, and Aramis is in custody, charged with treason.”

D’Artagnan roused properly just then, and sat up gasping, “Constance!”

The medic pushed him back down with ease. “Stay still you fool. I need to stitch that...Athos, please, control him.”

Athos put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and spoke soothingly to him so the medic could work. “He needs to rest,” the medic said as he straightened up and put his tools aside.

“Thank you,” Athos said, knowing that rest was the last thing d’Artagnan would allow.

“What happened to Constance?” Anne asked.

“She’s to be executed in the morning for poisoning the king. Lemay’s already been killed.”

Her mouth twisted in disgust. “He has his scapegoats all so nicely lined up, doesn’t he?”

D’Artagnan clutched Athos’s arm. “We have to save her!”

“We will. The captain is talking to the men and I want _you_ to lie there quietly until you can sit up without puking.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boy,” Anne snapped. “Do as you’re told. You’re only a hindrance right now.”

“What the hell is she doing here? You probably betrayed Constance, didn’t you?” D’Artagnan struggled to sit and seemed about to throw a punch at Anne, who didn’t react. Athos pushed him down again.

“Anne, perhaps you could go to Treville’s office? I’ll meet you there shortly.”

She rose and left in a swish of expensive silk. d’Artagnan continued to struggle until Athos shook him. “Anne had nothing to do with Constance. As far as we can tell, it was all cooked up by Rochefort, and the woman who helped betray the Queen was Marguerite. Anne is helping us.”

“Marguerite? But she’s Constance’s friend.”

“Maybe not as much as she thought. D’Artagnan, please, lie still. I need to speak to the captain. We will need your help but plans have to be made. I beg you, stay?”

D’Artagnan stared up at Athos with wounded, confused eyes. “You’ll save her?”

“We all will, or die trying. Just get your wits back. I’ll be back in an hour or so. We have time, I swear.” He clasped d’Artagnan’s hand. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

“Then trust me on this.” Athos waited until he got a nod in response, then left the infirmary. The yard was quiet, the men at work seeing to their weapons or their horses. Whatever Treville had said, had worked. For now.

As he had hoped, the captain and Anne were both in the office. “I’ve asked Serge to send up some food for us all,” Treville said. “How’s d’Artagnan?”

“Battered, but he’ll live. Worried, of course.”

“I’m tired of Rochefort’s appetite for harming women’s necks,” Anne said.

Athos turned to her. “Did he do something to you?”

“He tried to strangle me for making fun of his eye patch. Constance hasn’t even committed a crime that slight.”

“He’s deranged,” Treville said, “but he’s in control of everything right now. We need to change that, and we start by saving Constance.”

“Not the queen?”

Treville looked up at Athos. “I’m sure Milady knows well that to unravel a piece of knitting, you start by pulling on just one string.”

“I don’t knit,” she said, folding her hands. “But I understand the concept. I prefer guns, bombs, knives. Swords. That kind of thing.”

Treville grinned evilly. “Then I think we have a use for you, Milady.”

****************

Athos waited to return to d’Artagnan until the three of them had made solid plans, and asked for—not ordered—the assistance of their fellow Musketeers. Treville was adamant that it had to be volunteers only. “What we are doing is technically treason and we’ll be on the run until Rochefort is defeated and the king made aware of the truth. That may never happen.”

Not a single man refused to help. Though the situation was as grim and desperate as the day he found himself facing a firing squad, Athos found the brotherhood’s support a source of comfort that gave him strength and hope. The chances of success were thin as spider silk, but they did exist. None of them would give up until death itself threw them down.

But now he had to keep his hot-headed beloved from doing something stupid or premature. To his surprise, d’Artagnan had remained obediently in the infirmary, though he struggled to sit when Athos appeared. He sank back with a groan, and Athos put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to indicate he should stay where he was. “How do you feel?” Athos asked, sitting beside him. He took his hand, though it wasn’t private here.

“Like Milady said. A hindrance. Constance will die because I left her behind. Don’t...argue,” he said, raising his hand. “And I let myself be half-killed instead of doing anything to help her.”

“You did help her. You gave her hope.”

“To what end, Athos? How can we free someone from the palace cells? There’s only the three of us—”

Now Athos raised his own hand. “Where are you, d’Artagnan?”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“In the infirmary.”

“Which is where?”

“In the garrison. Oh.”

“Yes. All the men want to help. As does Anne. Don’t pull that face. She’s our best—possibly only—hope to save Aramis.”

“Constance? And the queen?”

“We have a plan. So, how do you really feel?”

“Sore. Ready.”

“Can you see straight? Shoot? Stand up without fainting?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, which made him wince. “Yes.”

“At this very moment, I mean.”

“Give me an hour. What do I need to do?”

“Nothing for now. We’re making preparations to get inside the palace execution yard.”

“How?”

“With difficulty, and Anne’s help. Do you have a key to Bonacieux’s house?”

“Yes?”

“Good. Stay here. Eat, rest, try not to worry. Well, not too much. We’re not leaving the garrison until after midnight. All right?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and Athos rose to leave. d’Artagnan didn’t try to stop him but there was something in his expression that made Athos pause. “What?”

“Nothing. Just....” He turned his face away. “It’s fine.”

Athos sat again. “You can tell me if you want.”

“It’s about her. I don’t want to impose that on you.”

“I’ll pretend that isn’t the rankest insult, D’Artagnan.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Do you realise she’s in this situation because she is one of the very few people the queen—and the king—can put their trust in and never be betrayed? That she has, without fail, been a friend and support to you and me and all of us? And you think I don’t feel heartsick at the thought of her being murdered because she is so good, so loyal, so brave? Talk to me, d’Artagnan. Tell me what you want of her, because it’s better than sitting around and worrying about not saving her. Not for your sake, for hers and ours. Mine. She’s my sister the way you are my brother. Um, perhaps more the way Porthos is.”

D’Artagnan managed the briefest of smiles before his mouth turned down again. “I can’t imagine a life without her. I don’t think I can go on if she dies.”

Athos took his hand and squeezed it. “If Anne had died—if she’d been hanged for Thomas’s death—I’d have felt the same.”

“Milady isn’t fit to wipe Constance’s shoes.”

Athos chose not to argue. “Even so. It’s not like you to give up.”

“You didn’t see her. She was so frightened, and she said she loved me, and...I couldn’t do a damn thing. How can someone as good and wonderful and beautiful as she is be in prison, while Rochefort is a free man?”

“The situation makes little sense, unless you know that this is all part of his plan.”

“But he’s _French_! How can he sell his own country out to the Spanish?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he was tortured into it.”

“But he’s safe now. I’d die before I’d betray France, or the queen!”

This sounded more like the man Athos knew, and he welcomed the fire in his love’s eyes. “I know you would. But his weaknesses, his madness, his pride, are things we can exploit. He’s already sent a letter to the captain demanding he be at Rochefort’s side to see the execution. He can’t imagine that Treville would do anything to resist him in that situation because he simply doesn’t have the captain’s qualities. We can use this.”

“Is that all we have?”

“No.” Athos relented and told him all the details of the plan, something he hadn’t wanted to do because he didn’t want d’Artagnan worrying over it all. But better that than him fretting over Constance.

The lad listened, and fortunately didn’t have a difficulty with the plan. “I wish we didn’t have to wait before she’s taken out.”

“We can’t break her out from within the cells. I would spare her this night if I could. She was fond of Lemay, I believe?”

“They were good friends. God, Athos. What a thing to endure. What a thing to _do_. Tell me Rochefort dies tomorrow.”

“Not before Porthos brings back Vargas. The king must see the truth or Rochefort will be an evil influence even after he dies.”

“I can’t lie here, Athos. Not when Constance is in one of those cells. We both know what that’s like.”

Athos helped d’Artagnan to sit up, since arguing with him was bound to be pointless. He didn’t seem on the point of throwing up, and though in pain, was lucid and following matters well enough. “There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“I can pray. I wish Aramis was here.”

Athos sighed a little. “We all do.”

“I know you’re not much for this kind of thing, but could you sit with me a little while I pray for her? And for Porthos and Aramis? And her majesty?”

“Of course.” Athos forbore from saying that a god who could let Constance die, suffered the innocent and kindly Professor Lemay to be slaughtered, wasn’t worth worshipping. Aramis usually grew very cross with him when Athos started down that path.

He bowed his head while d’Artagnan murmured prayers in Gascon with a familiar cadence. Athos silently repeated the same prayers in his head, but in Latin. He didn’t believe the words would help their absent friends or the queen, but they helped d’Artagnan, and if D’Artagnan was _not_ an avenging angel sent by God when those he loved were in danger, Athos was unable to tell the difference.

They had the skills. They had the courage. They had a plan which allowed for contingencies. What they really needed was luck.

Musketeers were traditionally good at making their own good fortune. Athos hoped this was still true.


	8. Chapter 8

One of the bits of luck the Musketeers had on their side was that they weren’t the Red Guard. Under Richelieu, the cadre had never been popular. Under Rochefort, resentment against it had festered like an ulcer on a beggar’s leg. There were many people inside and outside the palace, some with rank, some barely with names, all united in their loathing of the red-caped soldiers and their commander. Treville and Athos had found it embarrassingly easy to bribe or simply ask their way to where they could set equipment and explosives.

Treville returned to the garrison, so he could be fetched from there by Rochefort’s carriage, the man unable to believe the captain would keep his word. Treville would have done, but not for the reasons Rochefort might imagine. Athos and d’Artagnan hid in the stables loft. Athos would take act as the assistant to the usual cart driver who removed the corpses of the executed. The man had been happy to help, delighted by a bribe of ten livres and the promise of poking Rochefort in the eye. Roger had been easily substituted for one of the black horses used for this grim task, but they would only have two mounts to carry four people at speed away from the palace. Fortunately they didn’t have to go far.

They had to speak in whispers since there were Red Guards about, more than usual. D’Artagnan settled down, his face miserable. Athos held out his arms and d’Artagnan came into them without hesitation. “We _will_ save her,” Athos murmured.

“We have to. What if Rochefort decides to move things forward?”

“He wants an audience. No point in doing it in the dead of night. Stop worrying about things that won’t happen. There’s enough to think on without it.”

D’Artagnan went quiet. His familiar weight against him was a sweet misery for Athos, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

“I don’t know why you don’t hate me, for loving Constance. For going to her.”

“I could no more hate you than I could hate my left arm, or my lungs. You are part of me. Your love for Constance has never been secret. It’s part of you. I love all of you, even that part. I would save her for her own sake.” He kissed d’Artagnan’s temple. “No matter what happens tomorrow, or after, you are beloved. We are simply adjusting for reality. How’s your head?”

“Fine. What will Milady do when this is over?”

“I don’t know. She’s not your concern.”

“Porthos doesn’t know...what if he comes back and Aramis—”

“Aramis will be safe soon. Fretting won’t make this easier. Please, d’Artagnan. Concentrate on this battle.”

“Sorry.”

Athos tsked at him, and held him tighter. After a little while, the tension in d’Artagnan eased, and Athos could relax a little. They snatched a little rest, but no real sleep, hiding behind the bales of hay and spare tack. They both needed it, but Athos hadn’t been thrashed half to death earlier in the day.

They moved into position in the predawn. Wearing the cart driver’s hat, cloak and sackcloth mask, Athos rode beside the real driver as he pulled the cart into the execution yard. Once in position, d’Artagnan slid from under the cart to hide under the scaffold. Not long after, Rochefort came to the balcony above the yard, and gave the order to bring Constance out.

Standing by the horses meant Athos, like Treville above standing next to Rochefort, had an uninterrupted view of the whole ghastly business. The loving manner in which the executioner sharpened his blade, the stench of blood from yesterday’s killing, the way the scaffold was surrounding by cold stone walls like the prisoner was a fish waiting in a keep net to be slaughtered for the table.

If Athos found it sickening, even frightening, how much more the young woman with the bruised eyes who emerged from the cells, her steps shaky, her dignity the only thing keeping her upright? Athos was glad d’Artagnan was spared the sight of Constance as she was then, for it broke even his heart to see her. He found his hands shaking as he listened to her decline a blindfold. _We must not fail_ , he repeated to himself, over and over.

He knew the exact moment she spotted d’Artagnan, and that was his signal. D’Artagnan leapt into action, shooting the executioner and another guard, and Athos took pleasure in knocking Captain Villefort down, revealing his face, and mounting Roger in mere moments. Treville kept Rochefort under control until Athos had the horses ready. Constance and D’Artagnan mounted the other, Treville stepped onto Roger’s back from the stairs. Now.

Right on time, the gates blew in, the explosion set by their brothers outside the walls. Their comrades gave them cover while the four of them galloped from the execution yard, and prevented any Red Guard minded to give chase, to think again.

They changed horses, because two black stallions were too striking to ignore, and Roger was taken back to the garrison. Athos unlocked the back entrance of Bonacieux’s house, and d’Artagnan hustled Constance, covered in a cloak, into her old home. Athos let d’Artagnan look after her while he and Treville got a fire going, and a bean soup boiling. For now, bread and warm wine were all they could offer Constance, but it was all she could manage anyway.

“Thank you,” she whispered as Athos handed her a cup.

“You’re very welcome, my dear.”

She gave him a thin, wobbly smile, and d’Artagnan cuddled her close. It would be some time, Athos judged, before she would be able to deal with the reality that she was not dead.

But she surprised him, surprised them all, by insisting they not delay in going after Porthos to help him drag the Spanish spymaster, Vargas, back to Paris. She pointed out that killing Rochefort wasn’t as important as killing his lies, and only Vargas could do that. Then she surprised Athos even more by saying she was going with them to bring him back.

“No, you’re not,” d’Artagnan snapped in reflex.

Constance refused to back down. “Rochefort murdered Lemay in front of my eyes. He's my enemy as much as anybody's.”

D’Artagnan reluctantly agreed, though he wanted to make the final blow against the man. Athos was delighted that Constance had stood up for herself, though he wondered if she would contribute much to their mission. She would be a fine wife for d’Artagnan. She would be a fine Musketeer, if allowed.

“Take her to bed, get some rest, both of you,” he ordered. “We leave at nightfall.”

D’Artagnan did as he was told, Constance being smart and tired enough to let the lad do the carrying. Once alone, Treville said to Athos, “You get some rest too.”

“Did _you_ sleep, sir?”

“A little. More than you. I’ll keep watch. There will be messages.”

“Wake me in three hours?”

“Agreed.”

As he turned to the stairs to find a bed, Athos noticed the shadow on the captain’s expression. “Sir? Is something wrong?”

Treville’s expression spoke of exhausted patience with someone being more stupid than he ought to be—to be fair, it was practically his only expression these days. “You mean other than one of my men being charged with treason, the fact we’re all outlaws now, and that the fate of the queen rests in the hands of an amoral madman? No, nothing’s wrong, Athos.”

“Anne will rescue Aramis.”

“But to what end if her majesty is caught in Rochefort’s net?”

“You speak as if the king is dead already.”

He didn’t like the look Treville gave him. “I fear he may as well be. We’re running out of time. If Porthos has failed, we have no hope.”

“Porthos has never failed us yet, sir.”

Treville grunted. “True. Get some sleep. Worrying is my job.”

Athos smiled a little. “Yes, sir.” Not that he wouldn’t worry for free anyway.

A soldier took his rest where and when he could, regardless of circumstances, and Athos was very tired indeed. He slept soundly, and when he found the captain had let him sleep an hour longer than he’d requested, Athos couldn’t find it in him to complain. “Supplies, horses, are all in hand,” Treville reported. “Rochefort doesn’t seem to be making much of an effort to search for us.”

“Which would be a good thing if it didn’t mean he’s concentrating on doing harm inside the palace.”

“Precisely.”

“Is there anything else to be done?”

Treville shook his head. “Only to keep watch. Constance and d’Artagnan are still asleep, bless them.”

“At least we have saved one true innocent.”

“Two. By saving her, we’ve saved him.”

“I hoped it would be so. I’ll wake you in four hours.”

“Three.”

“Of course,” Athos lied.

He accepted Treville’s scolding for waking him late, glad to see his captain looking better rested if no less worried. D’Artagnan and Constance had emerged for food and clothes for her, but were back in their bedroom, there being no reason to give up their privacy until everyone was ready to leave. During Treville’s nap, saddle bags with clothes, food, weapons and other supplies had been left with a quiet signal whistle by the back door, along with a note telling Athos where Roger and their other mounts were waiting for them. He couldn’t help but be suspicious at the lack of a manhunt for them, but he thought it most likely that Rochefort thought them to be on the run already, long out of Paris. A discreet watch was being kept by the Musketeers on the streets around the house, and no one had raised the alarm. Now they only had to get to the rendezvous point, meet up with Porthos, and bring Vargas back.

A mere trifle.

Treville delayed only to eat. Athos rousted their younger companions and told them they had half an hour to be ready or to be left behind. Constance was wearing what looked like a riding costume of her own making, feminine but practical, designed for a long, hard journey. Had she made this as a distraction from her sorry marriage, hoping one day to join d’Artagnan in his adventures? The young woman had hidden depths and skills Athos was only now beginning to suspect, and he wondered if d’Artagnan had the faintest idea of the treasure he had claimed as his own.

The moon was in its last quarter, so they had to take care with the horses, but it felt to Athos that they were making good speed. As soon as there was the smallest daylight in the sky, they picked up the pace. The rendezvous was but three hours’ ride from that point.

They arrived to find Porthos had drawn the Spanish into a trap in French territory, no doubt by offering himself as a quarry. It was almost unsporting to offer the man any help, he was doing such a splendid job of dispatching Vargas’s men. But time was short, and there was a very slight risk Porthos might be harmed, so they finished off the last couple of guards to spare Porthos the effort. Constance took particular relish in taking Vargas into custody herself, and not a man among them would begrudge her that.

Once they explained the situation in Paris, Vargas agreed to come quietly, though Porthos kept a sharp eye on the man for whom he very obviously bore no affection. They made much faster time returning to the city, since they had the daylight, and once again took refuge in Constance’s house. Vargas gave them no trouble, but his presence was a reminder that he was all that stood between Rochefort and the throne. They didn’t dare move until Anne had rescued Aramis though, or failed in the trying.

 _She must not fail_ , Athos told himself. Sanguine as they all had to be about losing their friends in battle, the idea of Aramis being executed as a traitor, with all the gruesome cruelty that entailed, was not something Athos could contemplate without his stomach turning inside out. Not _Aramis_ broken on the wheel, that bright and beautiful presence reduced to shattered bones and screams of torment.

A quiet knock on the back door less than an hour after they had arrived back sent them all rushing to their positions, and their weapons. Pistol in hand, Athos opened the door, and went weak-kneed with relief to see not only Aramis but also Anne, both apparently unharmed and safe. He kissed his dear friend on the temple and welcomed him back with a murmured, “Thank God.”

But it was not God who had saved him, but Anne, who glided past the embracing friends in the sitting room and out to the parlour, where Athos found her standing by the unlit fireplace, looking weary and sad.

“Thank you.” He offered her a cup of wine, which she ignored. “What do you want to do once we remove Rochefort? Go to La Fère?”

“I suppose. Though there’s no future in it. I can’t stay there indefinitely.”

“I can’t see why not. I can draw up papers giving you exactly that right, Anne.”

She turned to him. “And when you die, your heir will evict me, Olivier.”

“Not if—”

“Not if?”

“Not if I marry you and you are the _comtesse de La Fère_.”

She went very still. “Are you serious? I thought you no longer loved me.”

He took her cold hands and held them between his own. “I am no longer _in_ love with you. Nothing’s changed there, Anne. My heart is...taken. But I can’t marry the one I do love, so why not let you take the title and use it? You will have all the money you want, the position you crave, the security you need. You won’t have to cheat or steal or murder, or sleep with anyone you don’t want to.”

“But without you.”

“Without me. I’m sorry. The marriage would be in name only, but then, that’s what my marriage to Catherine had become. You could establish a salon in Paris. Become the queen of society. You would be as free as any woman can be, more than the queen.” But her eyes were filling with tears. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re giving me all that I wanted, but none of it means a damn thing without you in my life. I love you, and I always will. No other man will ever replace you.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry. I do love you, you know that. But I’m done with marriage that’s second best.”

She went rigid. “Time was when I was your first choice. Must you be so insulting now you love another?”

“Anne...even if he didn’t exist, marriage and living on the estate are no longer for me. I would die of boredom, if we didn’t kill each other in a month. You can find love again, true love. We are bound, you and I. Even when I hated you, I loved you. Even now I want you too, I admit it.”

Her eyes begged him to reconsider. “Is that not more than many men and women have, Olivier? Isn’t it enough?”

“Answer me honestly, darling. Is it enough? Really? Do you want a husband who will always think of that other life?”

“But he wants to wed Constance.”

“The Musketeers are more than one man. I’m needed here. At La Fère, I’m a bloody nuisance to Guillame.”

“And when you die, your wife’s bastard will be _comte_.”

“Yes. And you will be the beautiful, wicked and still much desired dowager comtesse.”

His jest raised no smile. “Will you truly never visit? Will I never see you? Never make love to you again?” Her broken voice was no act. The pain in her heart showed in her tears, the misery in every line of her face.

“Would such scraps give you any comfort?”

She laid her cheek on his hand. “They wouldn’t be scraps to me. Please don’t let me lose you forever over my sins.”

“You won’t. Let us marry, Anne. Let me give you what I have, let me give that freedom to live as you wish. I think once you are happy and safe, you won’t be content with this old wreck any more. Show the world the brilliant mind, your wit, your allure. You will have your pick of paramours.”

“And still I would only want you. As you only want him.”

“If I came to you seeking solace for my injured heart, would you accept that for all it was? Could you be that generous? You were not, not so long ago.”

“I...don’t know, Olivier.”

He held her close. “Then why not accept what I offer. I’ve learned enough to know life goes in strange and unpredictable paths.”

She nodded against him. He was about to speak when d’Artagnan came to the doorway. “It’s time to go,” d’Artagnan said, walking away as soon as he’d spoken. Athos didn’t know how much he’d heard.

“I have to go,” he said. “Give me a day to come to you, and if I do not, ride to La Fère as we arranged. With luck, I’ll join you there within a couple of days. If not...you have the letters.”

Eyes still wet, she kissed his hands. “Godspeed, Olivier.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was so very nearly too late. By the time Vargas had convinced a terrified and dreadfully unwell king that Rochefort was the real enemy to his safety, Rochefort was in the queen’s chambers. He actually had his hands on her majesty when Aramis and Constance reached the room, so they told him later, and only Aramis’s pistol shot stopped him strangling the queen. He was defeated but not down when the others found him stumbling out of the queen’s room. They all had a chance to take him on as he refused to admit he was bested, but it was d’Artagnan who was granted his dearest wish of killing the man who had tortured his beloved Constance. The king of lies was dead, and his tyranny over.

There would be time for congratulations and reflection later, but Athos had a promise to keep. He took Treville aside, even as Rochefort’s cooling corpse lay where it fell, unshriven at her majesty’s insistence. “Sir, I have urgent business in Pinon, and must ask for a day’s leave. Two days at most.”

“Now, Athos?”

“It’s for Anne. She helped us a great deal.”

Treville’s mouth twisted. “She did. Then go and return swiftly. Tell her we’re grateful.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, even though he had his doubts how grateful d’Artagnan would be.

The lad spotted him leaving. “Athos?”

“I have things to attend to. I’ll be back at the garrison by the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. I’m in no danger. Look after Constance, guard their majesties. They will need the assurance of loyalty after all this.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “As you wish.”

“You did well today. As did Constance. She’s a very brave woman.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “She’s the most perfect woman I’ve ever known.”

“Then make sure she knows that and you treat her well.”

He turned and left before d’Artagnan could work out his probable destination. Anne, resting in his rooms, was startled to see him so soon. “That didn’t take long.”

“It felt longer. Rochefort is dead, Vargas revealed the truth, their majesties are safe. And Captain Treville said especially to tell you he is very grateful.”

“Hmmm. So he should be. You want to ride tonight?”

“We have time. You have reason to delay?”

“Not one.”

He made sure she had a good, steady mount to ride, and took her small collection of belongings on Roger. It would be dark before they reached Pinon, but he had a lantern, and knew the roads as well as she did. By God he was tired though. It felt like a week since he had spent a night in bed, uninterrupted.

They didn’t speak as they rode, Anne asking for no concession to her sex, riding as hard as a man as she always had done. He pondered the conversation earlier. He couldn't answer now why he could not take her as a wife in more than name. Certainly, he didn’t want to return to a life of relative ease as a comte, but he could be a musketeer and still take leave now and then to spend with her. He didn’t loathe her as he once did, and to lie with her would be no hardship. He cared well enough, loved her as he admitted. But that spark of passion was no longer there. His heart didn’t leap a little when he saw her, the way it did when he saw d’Artagnan, nor did he want her company when she was not there, as he did with his young Musketeer.

He cared much more for Anne than he ever had for Catherine, but Catherine had been married for property and heirs, and knew it. Anne should have been the companion of his heart, but now that was never to be.

They pulled up at the gates to the house. “Your new and permanent home,” Athos said, waving his hand. “If you want it. Do you?”

“As a gilded birdcage, it will do well.”

“The door is open, Anne. I would impose no limits on you, no restriction on your behaviour. You would truly be mistress here as long as you desired it.”

“I’ve been a mistress, and a wife. All I wanted to be was yours.” He started to remonstrate gently, but she drew herself up. “Still, I’m not fool enough to turn down such a generous gift. Are you sure, Olivier? What if you fall in love with a woman and wish to marry her? I’ll be your impediment as Catherine was.”

“Catherine didn’t stop us coming together. And you know well what drove us apart.”

“Never to be forgiven, I see.”

“Forgiven but unable to be forgotten. Had Thomas lived, would you have ever forgotten what he tried to do? However much he mended his ways?”

In the lamplight, her eyes glittered. “No.”

“Nor could I, and I loved him as well as I do you. Please, Anne. You rejected my friendship before. I offer it again in good heart.” He held out his hand. He thought she might reject it, but she took it in her own. “Friends? Allies?”

“Comrades in arms, at least. Well, come on, _monsieur le comte_. We have a scandal to cause.”

“After Catherine’s adventures?”

“Those were mere trifles. You’ll never live this down.”

He grinned. “I look forward to it.”

****************

He arrived back at the garrison the following evening, and Aramis, meeting him in the stables, told him that the four of them plus Treville were expected at the palace in the morning in their best uniforms, to receive the thanks of a grateful king. “We hope it doesn’t end the same way it did the last time his majesty was grateful.”

“Rochefort isn’t there to poison his majesty’s thoughts.”

“His majesty was not well known before that for his—” Aramis coughed. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, and I’d watch myself if I were you. You only escaped by the skin of your teeth.” He left the rest of it—that Aramis was actually guilty of treason—unsaid.

“Ah yes. Speaking of which, how is Milady?”

“Safe and comfortable at La Fère for now.”

“You took her there?”

“Yes. You have a problem with that?”

“Not me, but....” Aramis’s glance towards the barracks indicated who he meant.

“D’Artagnan should be busy with Constance. If not, I want to know why. Now let me eat in peace.”

The dinner hour was almost over but enough of his comrades remained in the mess to offer him backslaps and mugs of wine lifted in salute. If they were this merry a day later, last night must have been memorable indeed. Porthos wandered in, looking for Aramis, and grabbed Athos into a hug. “You ran away before we could do that.”

“You did all the hard work, my friend.”

“We all did it. You more than me,” Aramis admitted.

“Who’s keeping score? Not me,” Athos said.

“D’Artagnan disappeared too, back to Constance’s old house, soon as her majesty could bear to let her go. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of either of them today.” Porthos grinned knowingly. “Reckon there’ll be a wedding in the garrison soon.”

Athos thought about telling them of the banns to be read at Pinon’s church for the next three Sundays, and decided against it. He’d already calmed the fears of Bertrand and others by saying that Mlle de Breuil had been wrongfully convicted and Athos had information now that cleared her name completely. With Rénard and Catherine dead, Baron de Garouville on Athos’s side, and the villagers largely glad that one of their own had been returned with reputation restored and to be elevated to the nobility, Athos was reasonably confident no one would object to the marriage. He would tell his friends after the event, if he felt it necessary.

So instead he let his friends carry the conversation, looking forward to Treville’s official restoration as captain and getting back to their regular duties without Rochefort’s sneers and slights hanging over them.

“I hear no one wants the body. His majesty wants it buried in a pauper’s grave,” Porthos said. Aramis pulled a face. Disrespecting the dead sat badly with him, even when it was Rochefort, though Athos thoroughly understood the king’s motives.

“That’s the kindest thing I’d do to it,” Athos said.

“The man was tortured in a Spanish prison for five years,” Aramis snapped. “Now he’s dead, perhaps we can offer a little charity for what he suffered.”

Porthos stared. Athos carefully did not react. “Nah,” Porthos finally said. “He laid hands on her majesty, killed Lemay, tried to kill Constance, had the captain sacked, and who knows who else suffered or died because of him. Give your charity to the innocent.”

“I rather agree,” Athos said.

“Fine. I’m off to bed. Gentlemen,” Aramis said, leaving without his usual tip of the hat and happy smile.

“Fuck me, now I gotta feel sorry for a spy and a murderer?” Porthos said.

“No, you don’t,” Athos said, looking towards the door and wondering what had upset Aramis so. “Did he and the queen have a chance to speak?”

“Captain made sure they didn’t. Just to be careful.”

“Perhaps that’s all it is. But I might follow his lead. It’s been a very long week.”

“That it has. Still, not every day you get to save a king and a queen, and catch a spy red-handed.”

“Two spies, in fact. Señor Vargas is on his way home?”

“Oh yeah. And not in any fancy carriage, neither. The way his majesty was talking, I half expected Vargas to have to walk back to Madrid.”

“It would only be justice. Good night, my friend.”

Athos had given a somewhat false impression to Porthos. He wasn’t all that tired, having had a good night’s sleep at the house, and an easy ride after rising early to attend to matters. He hadn’t seen Anne again, but gave Piquet strict instructions to see to it she was treated well and with the respect due to his intended bride. Piquet showed remarkable composure on the whole, given the shock he must have had.

But Athos wanted time to think on his own, about Anne, about D’Artagnan and Constance. Perversely, Anne’s acceptance of his position had emphasised the degree to which he was now alone, and although that had been his lot for years before both she and d’Artagnan had crashed into his life, he had since grown used to intimate companionship. Now he had turned away, for different reasons, the two people he had loved most of all, and for the first time in years, he felt lonely. He still had friends, good, close friends. But to want someone who could hold him and talk to him, or listen, without needing to hold back, was a sorrow he had once thought not to feel again.

Ah well. Time to get used to it again. Anne seemed convinced he would find another to love, throwing back at him his own advice to her. Athos doubted it. Anne and d’Artagnan were such bright, unusual spirits, that encountering one in a lifetime, let alone two, was amazing luck. And to meet a third was surely impossible.

Now he had to compose himself to meet the expected announcement of d’Artagnan and Constance’s wedding with the appropriate joy and congratulations. He was truly glad for them. Constance at the very least, deserved this much and more. And d’Artagnan’s love for her had been steadfast, even through his relationship with Athos. They were made for each other.

Athos was made to be alone, and a soldier. He had found his purpose in life. He would embrace it again gladly, as he had once before.

****************

The ceremony at the palace was not without its ironies, but it was enjoyable to bask in the king’s approval for a change, and Athos would have endured much worse than he had to see the captain’s reputation restored and burnished. The queen was radiant and the dauphin in robust health. Constance at their side was beautiful and glowing with love and happiness. A man could wish for little more than the satisfaction Athos took in the whole thing.

There was one thing he had not foreseen at all. Aramis was retiring to a monastery, and while Athos did his best to accept his old friend’s decision with grace and support, the shock felt like being slammed in the chest with a shovel. Porthos was even worse after Aramis had walked off, apparently intending to travel to Douai on foot.

“I don’t get it,” he kept muttering, staring into his wine cup.

“Aramis was always torn between the profane and the sacred,” Athos said, then clarified, “between our life and that of the church.”

“He loves this world. Soldiering, being with women. Drinking,” Porthos added, lifting his wine.

“But he loves God too. Whatever happened in the prison cell, he is bound to follow that urge. You’ll see him again.”

“Not as one of us, though.”

D’Artagnan walked into the yard just then, beaming at them both. He had rushed off to see Constance after Aramis left. “Do you want a bit of good news to cheer you up?”

“Gonna have to be _really_ good news to do that, pup.”

“It is! Constance and I are getting married. The banns are posted, and we’ll be wed three weeks from now. ” D’Artagnan managed not to look at Athos as he said this. “Porthos, will you be my best man?”

Porthos grinned. “‘Course. You don’t need to ask.”

“Congratulations,” Athos said with as bright a smile as he could manage. “I hope you will make her very happy. She deserves nothing less.”

“I will. I promise. Umm. Anyway, I’ll be staying with her for a bit.” He looked down at his feet. “I wish Aramis could have stayed a little longer to see it.”

“There are many things Aramis won’t see because of this. He knew that before he left. Go, d’Artagnan. She’s waited for you long enough.”

D’Artagnan gave Athos a guilty look. “Can I have a word with you? In private?”

There was little Athos would have liked less but he agreed, motioning the lad over to his rooms. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to know you’re not angry with me.”

“I’ve told you before that I am not. Are you calling me a liar?”

“No! It’s just...now we’re getting married.”

“As it happens, I’m to be wed again too. To Anne.”

D’Artagnan’s shock quickly changed to anger. “ _Her_? Just because she helped Aramis?”

“Not just because of that—”

“Athos, she’s a criminal! The worst person on earth you could think of marrying. Why? Is it to get back at me?”

Athos lost his patience all at once. “Not everything I do is about you. And I thank you not to interrogate me in this...this insulting manner. I do not and will not do that to you over your choices. Pray do not do so with mine.”

“Are you comparing Milady with Constance? Really?”

Athos stood up straight, spine rigid with anger. “Leave, and speak no more of this to me. My decisions are mine to make.”

“But Milady—”

“Now, d’Artagnan.”

“You didn’t tell the others, did you? Aramis would have talked you out of it.”

Athos simply glared until d’Artagnan gave up and left. Then he concentrated on controlling his breathing, in order to bring his temper under control. He’d come perilously close to drawing his weapon on d’Artagnan, and that was unthinkable.

Only when he could breathe and think and not react like an overheated kettle to the slightest nudge, did he leave his room, only to be immediately confronted by Porthos. “You wanna tell me what the hell is going on? You really gonna marry her?”

“Yes. I’m simply giving away something I no longer want. You need not concern yourself.”

His big friend stared at him, impressive brows lowered in anger and confusion. “Why didn’t you tell us while Aramis was here?”

“It wasn’t important enough. I don’t intend to live with Anne. It’s merely a way of keeping her safe. She’s earned it, even if you don’t believe me. She saved Aramis’s life, and no one else could have done.”

“Yeah.” Porthos’s expression cleared a little. “And yours. And the pup’s. But I thought you were done with marriage.”

“A marriage in name only. I’ll not to be granted the kind of love in this life d’Artagnan and Constance will enjoy.”

“You would if you could have married him,” Porthos said quietly.

“And if wishes were thrushes, beggars would eat birds,” Athos snapped back impatiently. “None of this is anyone’s business but my own, and it affects none of you. If it did, I would have told you. Do you not trust that, at least?”

“Calm down. The boy came out spitting fire and I was worried about you and him, is all. There’s only the three of us now. Gotta look after each other.”

Athos relaxed. “Yes, we do. But we’re still four in spirit, however many leagues lie between us.”

“It’s hard. It’s been me and him, then me and us, for so long. I almost forgot what just being me was.”

“You and me both, Porthos. You’ll need to polish up your best armour for the wedding.”

“Yeah, want to do me best for Constance. I love that girl like my own sister.”

“On that we agree as well. Has the captain returned yet?”

“You mean Minster Treville? Nope. Figure he and the king had a lot of talking to do.”

“Fine. Then let’s carry on as we should, until he returns. I have things to do.”

He walked away. Keeping the remaining Inseparables together was going to take more work than he expected, and possibly more skills than he owned. D’Artagnan might forgive him, and Athos might forgive d’Artagnan, but the very fact of his marriage might cause a rift beyond Athos’s ability to mend.

He went up to the captain’s office, to see if there was anything needing to be attended to in Treville’s absence, and decided on the duty rosters, which had been neglected. He was deep in thought as to how best arrange guard duty at the palace—something which had also been neglected—when the office’s door opened. “Knock...oh, Constance. Come in. My congratulations,” he said, bowing, then pulling out a chair for her.

“Thanks.” She didn’t look as overjoyed as a young bride to be ought to, but perhaps the novelty had long worn off.

“Were you looking for the captain?”

“No, you. Porthos said you were up here. You realise d’Artagnan came back in a right state.”

“I’m sorry for that, but it’s none of his business.”

“It’s mine though.”

Athos sat back in the chair. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“You’re marrying her because you sent d’Artagnan to me, aren’t you?”

How on earth had she come to that conclusion? “No, my dear, I am not.”

She frowned. “Then why?”

“The position of _comtesse_ is vacant, and if my life had gone differently and I’d had the courage to stand up to my father, Anne would have been my wife all along.”

“You love her? After everything she did?”

“It’s not that simple, Constance. We will be wed, but not married. We won’t share our lives or a bed.”

She smoothed her skirts, deflecting from her embarrassment. “Oh. But what if you meet someone you do love like that? You won’t be able to marry her.”

“I can’t marry him anyway.”

Her eyes went wide. “You still love him that much.” Athos nodded. “I thought...maybe your feelings had cooled a little. And that’s why you were marrying her.”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“How do you expect me to marry him when I know how much it will hurt you, Athos? I care about your feelings too.”

“I expect you to marry the man we both love, and make him happy. Nothing more. My feelings are unimportant.”

“How can you bear it? All those months, when I had to turn him away because of Bonacieux...I thought I would die sometimes, it hurt so much. You’re so calm about it.”

“I’m older than you, my dear. And my heart already has a great deal of scar tissue on it. I never had any hopes for more than we had. I bear you no ill will. The opposite in fact,” he added with a smile. “He’s undoubtedly the most fortunate of men, and I’m jealous of him as well as you.”

She smiled a little. “Sometimes I wish I’d fallen for you instead. I had been going to ask a favour...but now, it would be unfair.”

“What did you want to ask?”

She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’ll ask the captain.”

“Constance.”

“It’s just my parents won’t approve of me marrying a soldier and especially not so soon after Bonacieux’s death. I’m still in mourning, officially.”

“It’s not against the law, simply custom.”

“I know, but I daren’t tell them about d’Artagnan. So I need someone to give me away.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“But you can’t.”

Athos tilted his head. “No? Very well.”

“I mean, there’s no one I’d love more to do it but it would hurt you so much, Athos. And I don’t want to hurt you any more.”

“Constance, I would be honoured, and not hurt at all. To do this for you would be...good. A good and beautiful thing.”

Her smile this time was bright. “Really?”

“Really. An act of love for you both.”

“I don’t think d’Artagnan would do it if the situation was reversed.”

“I’m not d’Artagnan.”

“One’s enough.” They shared a grin. “Thank you, Athos.”

“You’re welcome. Now I suspect you should go back to him unless you want him in more of a state than he is already.”

She shook her head. “I’ll explain it until he calms down. Really, it’s simply when you think about it. And she did save Aramis. I don’t like her but she is brave.”

“She is, but not as much as you. Now, go home and stop worrying about me.”

“Can I worry a little bit?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

She grinned. “All right then. Thank you.”

The Constance-sized hole in the room when she left was too quiet and too sad. Athos abandoned the duty rosters and went outside for some air. He needed more time to get over this than he’d realised.

****************

France’s newest minister rode into the garrison that afternoon on a very fine horse and in very new, very un-Treville clothing. Athos, sitting at the table in the yard, stood and bowed with great deference. “Minister.”

Treville gave him a sour look. “My office, now.”

Athos forbore from mentioning that it could hardly still be his office, because Treville looked like a man on the edge, and Athos had no intention of pushing him over. He found the man at his desk, staring at the rosters Athos had left for him. “I thought someone should attend to them,” Athos explained.

“Yes, get used to it. His majesty has declared war on Spain and in my capacity as Minister of War, I’m appointing you captain of the garrison.”

Athos sucked in a breath. “Me? I’m not fit to lead anyone.”

“Too bad. I’ve made the decision.” He grinned suddenly. “God, it feels good to make it.”

“I’m sure. War with Spain? Even with the queen’s nationality?”

“As her majesty has said more than once, she has been queen of France longer than she was a princess of Spain, and her loyalties are with us. I’m not sure the king would care if she did object. They’ve gone too far, Athos.”

“Agreed. So, my orders?”

“Cancel all leave, summon all the men back to the garrison, and see about provisioning and so on. You’ve done this before, you know what’s needed.”

“I need Aramis.”

Treville grimaced. “His loss will be felt, but it can’t be helped. You will march within a month.”

“Understood. Uh, D’Artagnan is to marry Constance.”

That raised a smile. “I thought as much. Unfortunately he will have to delay proper married life until he returns. You better break the bad news to them.”

“Yes, sir. And I’ll require a day’s leave just before we march.”

“Athos, you’re the captain now. You can’t just drop everything on a whim.”

“Yes, I know, sir. This is something I’ve set in motion and must finish before I go to war.”

Treville narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “Very well. Do it discreetly, and not unless someone responsible is your lieutenant. Anything else?”

“I presume it’s too early to talk about strategies and plans of attack.”

“It is, but I’ll want to talk to you about them as soon as we have them ready. This will be a long campaign, and a hard one. The country can hardly afford it either.”

“The king won’t be swayed?”

“After Rochefort nearly killed his queen?”

“Ah. When you put it like that....”

Treville stood. “So, it’s all yours. Good luck, and I expect regular reports. The Musketeers are no longer on guard duty, by the way. This takes precedence.”

Athos thought of his wasted morning’s work on the rosters. “Of course.”

“You better get started, _captain_.” Treville took a little too much pleasure in giving him that title, Athos felt.

He waited until Treville had ridden out, then stood on the balcony. “Everyone, I have an announcement, and news.” He waited until most of the men had gathered underneath where he stood. “Minister Treville has appointed me your new captain. And our first duty will be to take part in a campaign against the Spanish.”

A ragged cheer set up. He searched for Porthos. His friend looked grimly satisfied, as a consummate warrior might be. “All leave is cancelled. You have this afternoon to say goodbye to your families and sweethearts, but return by nightfall. Martin, Potier, come to my office for a list of the men on duty outside the city. You’ll ride to give them the news and tell them to return.”

He spoke to the two Musketeers and sent them on his way. Then he went downstairs again, where he found Porthos waiting for him. “Where are you going?” Porthos asked.

“Constance’s house. I need to give them the bad news.”

“Treville said they couldn’t marry?”

“No, but they might want to delay because d’Artagnan will leave almost immediately afterwards. It’s their decision.”

“I could go.”

Athos pursed his lips, considering the offer. “No, I should. I’ll be back within the hour. Do you have anyone to say farewell to?”

“Did that this morning.” They shared a sad look, remembering their missing fourth. “You don’t think we should go after him? He wouldn't have left if he knew it was war.”

“Are you sure about that, Porthos? He knows how much he’s giving up. No, leave him be. He has his own battle to fight.”

Porthos didn’t like that but he didn’t argue. Athos set out for the Bonacieux house, wishing Treville had passed this captain’s cup to anyone but him.

He knocked at the back door of the house, since the front door was for strangers. D’Artagnan opened it, and frowned at him. “If you’re looking for an apology, Athos—”

“That’s Captain Athos to you, Musketeer. And no, I’m not. May I come in?”

D’Artagnan, eyebrows at his hairline in surprise, stood aside. “Captain?”

“Treville. Just now.”

“Congratulations.”

Athos gave him a look. Congratulations were not really in order.

Constance came into the sitting room. “Athos! Is something wrong?”

“You should both sit, I think.” D’Artagnan moved protectively to Constance’s side and took her hand. Since they weren’t going to sit, Athos continued. “War against Spain has been declared. The Musketeers will march to the campaign within a month. All leave is cancelled.”

Constance looked at her fiancé in alarm. “War?”

“Seems like,” d’Artagnan said. “We can still be married. Can’t we?”

“Yes, of course,” Athos said. “But it’s likely we’ll have to leave just after the wedding. I’m sorry, Constance. You deserve better.”

She drew herself up. “I’m marrying a soldier. This was bound to happen.”

“Not quite this soon,” Athos said regretfully. “It’s Rochefort’s fault, of course. The king can’t let this pass.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “I should go to the queen.”

“If you wish. D’Artagnan, you have to return to the garrison. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Constance frowned at him. “Don’t be an idiot, d’Artagnan. You think he planned this just to annoy you?”

D’Artagnan didn’t reply, but his look was unfriendly. Athos sighed. “You have this afternoon to say goodbye for now. Be back by nightfall.”

“What about you and Milady? Now you won’t be able to marry.”

“If you say it, then it must be true.” He had no intention of squabbling over this again. He tipped his hat. “Constance.”

He had to put this and his feelings behind him. They were about to go to war, damn it, and his petty emotional entanglements were unimportant. If only he didn’t have to wait three weeks to marry Anne, he could rush off now and be done with it. He wished he’d never told d’Artagnan. The lad was obsessed with Anne’s character, and the threat she supposedly posed. Did he really imagine that she would run after an army just to cause one Musketeer mischief?

He moved his things to Treville’s old office—it would take some time before he thought of it as his own—and turned the roster pages over to use for notes. Rochefort’s activities and Treville’s period out of favour had left their stores to run down and other matters like the armoury to be neglected, so the first thing he needed to do was an inventory, and then send a request to the king to replace what they lacked. None of the men would have armour suitable for battle—that would have to be made, and quickly. He made a note to make a list of what every man had to carry with him, and find out who didn’t have the equipment. He worried about some of the men. Aramis had been their most seasoned soldier by far. Porthos was nearly as experienced, but after him, Athos himself was the only other one who had any extensive experience of battle. Brawling with the Red Guards would not count.

And d’Artagnan had no experience at all. Would Athos’s earliest duties include burying the man he loved?

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. Lives would be lost. That was inevitable. D’Artagnan was no more or less precious than any other soldier, and with his skills and intelligence, had advantages many did not. He would have to pick things up along the way just as Athos had, and Porthos. He’d had the best teachers. Now it was time to see if he had learned enough to survive.

D’Artagnan returned to the barracks on time, and looking a little chastened. He made no attempt to gain Athos’s private attention, and Athos went out of his way to behave exactly the same to him as to any of his comrades. Porthos claimed Athos’s company instead for dinner, which was welcome. Athos thought he should formally made Porthos his lieutenant. Once, he had hoped D’Artagnan would, in time, be able to take the position, with Treville still as their captain. But the boy was too young and inexperienced, and Porthos had all the skills in abundance, even if he had no time for officers and had resisted all attempts before to make him one.

He took his friend up to the office after the meal, and told him of his decision. “No way,” Porthos said. “I ain’t officer material.”

“Please, Porthos. Who else can I trust?”

“D’Artagnan?”

“Not yet. Maybe never.”

“Cos of that argument earlier?”

“Partly. Only because it shows his lack of control. And I admit, his selfishness.”

“He’d never let a man suffer cos of that, Athos.”

“One would hope not. But you are my choice. I need you, my friend.”

Porthos held up his hand. “Only if it’s temporary, like. Until one of the others shows what they’ve got.”

“None of them will ever be you. Not even Aramis.”

“Heh. That’s true. Too soft-hearted, that man.”

“Soft-headed too. His decisions were not always the wisest.”

“Yeah, like buggering off to Douai.”

“Let it go, Porthos. Polished your armour yet? Their wedding is still on.”

“Nope, but I will. We ain’t going to yours then?”

“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

Porthos shrugged. “Always up for a bit of fun, me.”

“This will be strictly business. Although the _comtesse de La Fère_ will have my blessing to take as many lovers as she wish. Maybe you could apply.”

“Her? No, thanks. I like my cock attached right where it is.”

Athos smirked. “I can see your problem. I’ll say good night.”

“You ain’t done?”

“No...but I’m sleeping up here now.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Porthos shook his head. “Minister Treville. Never saw that one coming.”

“None of us did. I’ll see you in the morning.”

****************

The next day, he addressed the men at muster. “I’ve asked Porthos to be my lieutenant. He is our most experienced soldier, and I trust him completely. He and I have the most experience of warfare. Some of you have seen battle too. I ask you each to take those brothers who have not been to war, and talk to them about that they will see and do. It’s natural to be worried, even fearful. War is no light matter to engage upon. No man is to call another ‘coward’ for admitted misgivings, even to being scared. We are all brothers in arms, battle hardened or not. Porthos and I are at your service at dinner if you wish to speak, or ask questions. Nothing said will be revealed to another soul. I know you all to be good, brave men, and I will not hear a word said against a single one of you, by a brother or by one outside this garrison. Now, dismissed. D’Artagnan, my office, if you please.”

D’Artagnan presented himself smartly, with no overt hostility. “How is Constance?”

“Fine, that I know of. She went back to the palace last night. She’ll stay there until the wedding.”

“Best thing, I suspect. I have a task for you.” He handed D’Artagnan a piece of paper. “This is a list of the equipment every man must have, and each piece in good repair, before we march. I want you to speak to everyone, find out what’s lacking, and compile a report so I can request the items. Once they arrive, your list will help us distribute it. Can you do that?”

“Of course. Shouldn’t I be training or something?”

“This is training, just of a different sort. Anything else?”

“Athos...I mean, captain...about the things I said yesterday.”

Athos sighed. “If I put it down to heightened emotions and weariness, will you promise not to repeat any of the things you said?”

“Yes, of course. I’m worried about you though.”

“One of the luxuries of being my subordinate is that you never need to be. Anne won’t endanger me. That’s all you need to know, and all I intend to say. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Constance says you’re giving her away.”

“You have an objection?”

“Only on your behalf.”

“Then there is no objection. Be quick about that, for I need to give the palace as much time as possible to provision us. Dismissed.”

He sat and wrote a note to Treville—one of dozens he would write to the man over the coming weeks—to ask what should be done about armour. They would need a cook, and Serge wouldn’t do. The man was a former soldier and well past the age of being able to follow men on a march. So a cook would have to be recruited, and other servants too. He wrote to Anne to tell her of the developments and to assure he would be there as soon as it was proper for them to wed. There were other letters too, regarding the estate, his will, his income and pension. And Catherine’s son. There was every chance he would not return alive from this war. Though the boy was not of his blood, Athos owed it to his father’s memory to make some effort to see that the next _comte de La Fère_ was properly prepared for the role.

He was glad there was so much to do, so much mental exercise, because the moment he stopped for a breath, his heart reminded him of how much he was losing. Aramis, d’Artagnan. It wasn’t like losing his parents, or even Thomas, but still, he ached, which annoyed him. Aramis would be much happier now he had finally made a decision to follow the spiritual life, and frankly, if it kept him away from the queen and his son, would be better for all concerned. And d’Artagnan was marrying the finest woman Athos could possibly wish for anyone, and his former lover would soon be at his side day and night, fighting alongside him.

But not to be able to listen to Aramis spout his romantic nonsense, or more rarely, his exquisitely humane good advice, or to hold d’Artagnan when one of them needed it...these were things to grieve, even if in the balance, they were small and only personal.

Better to keep busy than to maunder. Soon there would be enough pain and sorrow and worry of real importance to wallow in.

D’Artagnan brought back his report the following afternoon, and Athos was pleased to see that not only had the lad summarised what was lacking, but had made a table of names and equipment, to be checked off when the supplies arrived. “This was not on my list though,” Athos said, noting ‘bandages, needles, silk’ added at the bottom.

“No, but Aramis would normally supply that and I thought you would probably want us to all have such things. He would have reminded you, if he’d been here.”

Athos looked up at d’Artagnan’s face. “I miss him too,” he said quietly. “And, good idea. Well done.”

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan turned to leave.

“Ah, one thing. Have you thought where—” Athos stopped. This was probably not appropriate coming from him.

“Where?”

“Your nuptial evening. Uh, where you would like to spend it.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Her old house, I suppose.”

The house had been closed up and much of the furniture sold to pay for Bonacieux’s funeral. It made a decent hideaway, but not a very comfortable setting for a wedding night. And then there were the unfortunate associations with Constance’s former husband. “You could stay up here, if you wish. I’m riding to Pinon directly afterwards, as you know.”

D’Artagnan stiffened, and Athos waited for the inevitable outburst. It didn’t come. “That’s kind of you. Won’t you mind?”

“I won’t be here.”

“But...it’ll be me and Constance in your bed.” He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath of frustration. “Constance is worried about you. She says it’s not normal for you to be so calm about...you know. Me.”

“Constance is the best and most wonderful of women, but I can’t imagine she has a lot of experience of this situation, d’Artagnan. I’m fine.”

“But how can you be? It’s tearing me in half, but it doesn’t bother you? Or is it just that you never felt the same as I did. I suppose that must be it.”

“Would it help if I said that was true?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went very dark and hurt. “Is it?” he whispered.

“No.”

“Thank God.”

Athos snorted. “You would prefer I suffer the agonies of frustrated love than you suffer the insult to your self-importance.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Athos raised his hand. “I’m teasing.”

“Sorry. I’m so confused. One minute, I’m so happy to be marrying her. Then I remember I have to leave her to go to war. And then I remember you and what this all means for you and I...wish there were two of me.”

“God forbid. D’Artagnan, I love you dearly, but one of you is quite enough.”

That raised a small grin. “Constance says the same sometimes.”

“Forget about my feelings. Enjoy your wedding and being with her. A happy marriage is no small thing to be grateful for.”

“But you’ll never have one.”

 _Tactful as ever_ , Athos thought ruefully. “I missed my chance. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“That’s the problem. I feel I’m making a mistake.”

“You’re not,” Athos said firmly. “Now, do you have things to occupy you, because I’m sure I can find something if you have not.”

“I have things to do.”

“Then, dismissed.”

D’Artagnan frowned at Athos but left without complaint. For some time afterwards, Athos stared at the papers in front of him, unable to recognise what they said or what he’d been about to do with them. He understood something of what d’Artagnan felt—as if he stood on a doorstep, and once he walked through the door, life would change forever. That was normal for a young man about to be wed, and life would in some ways change for him irrevocably. But for Athos? D’Artagnan would be no further away from him than he was already. The step through the door had already happened, and the wedding would change nothing. There was no going back to the way things were. Aramis was gone and so was d’Artagnan. All that was left was adjusting.

Weddings among the Musketeers were rare enough that there was no actual tradition for pre-wedding celebrations, but all celebrations in the garrison involved copious drinking and where possible, brawling with the Red Guards. The latter was now frowned on since the guards were under the control of a new and amenable captain appointed by Minister Treville. So that only left the drinking. Athos went to the mess and shared several toasts to d’Artagnan and his bride to be, but slipped away after that, not in the mood for carousing and certainly not over the wedding. He was happy for the two of them, he truly was. That didn’t mean he was completely happy for himself.

Porthos saw him leaving and lifted his chin in query. Athos shook his head, and Porthos nodded. His friend knew him well enough to understand that Athos was saying “I’m not fine but I don’t need help.” A friend who understood such things was a precious gift.

He worked at his desk until his eyes began to ache. He should really go to bed. The ceremony was at nine, then he had to ride direct to Pinon for his own nuptials the following day. He was quite sick of thinking about weddings, one way or another.

A knock at his door had him jerking up from his reading. “Come in.”

He thought it would be Porthos, but it was d’Artagnan who walked in, a little unsteadily. “Shouldn’t you be getting some rest so you look your best tomorrow?”

“Won’t sleep. Can’t sleep.” D’Artagnan wobbled over to his desk and leant on it, hand flat on the surface. He peered at Athos. “How you?”

“I’m fine. Go to bed, d’Artagnan. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No. Can’t. Mornin’, ‘m married. Can’t...wrong t’ talk to you then.”

“You can always talk to me.”

D’Artagnan suddenly reached over and grabbed Athos by his open doublet, and hauled him close. Athos realised that what he took for drunkenness might be just as much emotional distress. D’Artagnan’s eyes were red, which could have been from candle smoke, or drink, but not when they were full of tears. “Last chance to _talk_.”

Athos tried to free himself but the lad had a fierce grip on his coat that only actual violence would break it. “You shouldn’t be here. We’re over, d’Artagnan.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.”

“Is that so.”

d’Artagnan jerked him a little closer. “I love you. You love me.”

“You love Constance.”

“I do! But I love you the same! I don’t want to marry her if I can’t have you too.”

Athos tugged at the fingers trapping him. “You’re drunk. In the morning, you’ll marry her and be the happiest man in the world.”

“No. Not gonna. I refuse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you do that to her, you’ll hurt her terribly. I thought you didn’t want to ever hurt her.”

“I don’t. Don’t want to hurt you. Please, Athos.” D’Artagnan leaned over. “I need to kiss you.”

“No.” Athos shoved at d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “I won’t let you deceive her.”

D’Artagnan let go but still leaned in. “But she already knows.”

“She knows your feelings. Not that you’re sneaking around behind her back trying to kiss me.”

D’Artagnan threw himself into the chair. “I don’t know what to do. If I marry her, I feel like I’m losing half my soul.”

“You’re not.”

“Why are you always so cold bout this? Don’t you _care_?”

Athos felt anything but cold. Anger, desperation, sorrow, all warred within his blood and demanded release. “You’re a fool, d’Artagnan. A damn, selfish fool. Go to bed and leave me alone. You’ve won the greatest prize a man can hope for—the love of a truly good, intelligent, brave woman—and still you complain. Go away.”

“Athos—”

He slammed to his feet and roared at his visitor. “I said, go, damn you! Why do you torment me? Why is nothing I do enough for you? I let you go with good wishes, I helped you save Constance and have the change to marry her, you have everything I could give you and it’s not enough. What do you want me to say? There is nothing left in me. I have nothing more. Leave me alone, and if you don’t, by God I’ll make you.”

D’Artagnan had risen to his feet, and all trace of drunkenness or sentiment had left his features. “You really _do_ hurt.”

“Of course I hurt, you idiot. I’m made of flesh and blood, not iron. But there’s nothing to be done. Leave this office or I shall. I won’t tolerate you using me to injure Constance.” He held a hand out to the door. “Now.”

D’Artagnan didn’t move. “I’m truly making a mistake.”

“The mistake would be to give in to your childish emotions and throw away the best thing that’s ever happened to you or any man. I made that mistake. Don’t be me.”

D’Artagnan jerked as if startled. He stared at Athos, who refused to react or say any more. He had already made a spectacle of himself. He just hoped none of the men had heard his intemperate words.

How long was d’Artagnan going to stare at him? _Enough_. “I need to get some sleep. So do you. Please go, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan moved, but not towards the door. He approached Athos, who stiffened, ready to push the man away if he tried anything sexual.

But d’Artagnan didn’t. He simply folded his arms around Athos and held him tight. “I’m sorry. I will always love you.” Athos didn’t hug him back, but couldn’t help but sink into the embrace, because he wanted it so badly. “No matter what happens, remember that, Athos.”

Then he let Athos go, turned and walked to the door, closing it behind him, not once looking back. Athos wanted to weep from the loss, even though it was exactly what he’d demanded d’Artagnan do.

He went back to his desk, and fought the childish impulse to toss all the papers on his desk and lay his head down on it to cry. Instead he forced himself to look at one more request from the palace, compose a response, then wipe his pen carefully and set it down. He glanced at his dress uniform, hanging on the screen, ready for the morning. He was no actor. How he was going to get through this damn ceremony without losing his mind, he had no idea. But he had to do it somehow.


	10. Chapter 10

Morning found him bleary-eyed but calmer. The short ride to the palace to collect Constance helped too. She was radiantly lovely, as he expected. “You look terrible,” she said.

“My apologies. I spent far too long looking at paperwork last night.”

She gave him a knowing look, but didn’t comment. At least the wedding was to be in the garrison chapel, not at the palace as the queen had wanted. Constance had been adamant that she was marrying a Musketeer, so the Musketeers’ house of God was where she should marry. A palace event would have been too much for Athos’s limited patience this morning.

He helped Constance down from her gelding, and set about arranging her pretty white gown so it hung properly. “You know your way around a dress, captain.”

“I’ve done it a time or two,” he said, smiling a little at her smirk. “Shall we?”

He took her arm, and led her into the church, packed to the rafters with Musketeers who turned to grin at them as Athos walked her up the aisle. At the alter, the priest and d’Artagnan waited. Athos carefully didn’t look at either as he handed Constance over, then stepped back to stand beside Porthos. _There_. The hard bit was over. He glanced at Porthos and found his friend looking back with concern. Athos made the effort to smile and look unconcerned.

D’Artagnan only had eyes for Constance, which was only right. The priest, having led prayers and read the appropriate texts from the Bible, began the ceremony, and asked whether any man there knew of any reason why this man and this woman should not be wed.

The chapel went still, but then a low murmur of surprise had Athos and Porthos both looking towards the door, their hands automatically on their swords in case of danger. The surprise was because the queen, Treville at her side, was walking up the aisle. Athos signalled to three men in the front row to shift their behinds and let her majesty take a seat. “Your majesty,” the priest said, bowing low. “Welcome to this place of God. Do you come to make an objection to this wedding?”

The queen grinned at Athos and Porthos. “Not at all, holy father. I have no objections at all to this marriage of my dear friend to my dear protector. Please continue.”

Constance smiled like the sun coming out, and d’Artagnan sagged as if he had believed the queen had really come to stop him being wed. Treville smirked at Athos and Porthos, obviously happy at the little _coup_ he and her majesty had made.

The queen’s presence made it easier in some ways. Athos concentrated on her and the minister, not on the couple in front of the priest, and when the ceremony was over, could escape while everyone else was focussed on the queen and the new couple.

The vows were said, the rings exchanged, and the priest led the final prayers for the newlyweds. The Musketeers, led by the queen and her minister, left the chapel ahead of the bride and groom, to form an honour guard outside. Constance came over to Athos and Porthos. She clasped Porthos’s hand. “Thank you, my dear friend.”

Porthos gave her his widest grin and bent to kiss her. “He don’t treat you right, you come looking for me.”

“I will,” she said, looking at her husband. “And Athos....” She took his right hand in hers, then d’Artagnan’s, and clasped all three together. “You are much loved. By both of us.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos then, his eyes softer and calmer than Athos expected. Perhaps the pre-marriage nerves had gone. “Yes, you are.”

Athos gave Constance a kiss. D’Artagnan leaned in and kissed him on both cheeks in the Gascon manner. “Good luck today,” he murmured.

“You too. Not that you need it,” Athos said, trying to sound light hearted. He didn’t succeed but the others were kind enough not to mention it. “The office is at your disposal. I won’t be back until tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you,” Constance said. D’Artagnan took her arm and walked her down the body of the church, man and wife at last. Athos heard cheering as they reached the doorway.

“You all right?” Porthos muttered.

“Perfectly. Now let me leave without a fuss. You’re in charge until I get back.”

Athos slipped out behind the cheering Musketeers, and away to the stables. Now all he had to do was not make a fool of himself in Pinon and he could judge this whole business almost a success.

****************

He was near collapse when he reached Pinon, causing the groom to yell for help in alarm as Athos half-fell from his horse. “Be quiet, man,” Athos snapped, pulling himself upright with the greatest effort. “I’m fine.”

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Have my things brought to my room, and send Piquet or a manservant to me.”

“Right you are, my lord.”

He didn’t send for Anne, seeing no reason to disturb her, and made his way to his bedroom without obstruction. Piquet knocked on the door shortly afterwards, and Athos asked him to have water and towels brought. “Are my clothes ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lord. Her ladyship made sure of it.”

“Cather...oh yes. Mlle de Breuil.”

“Meant no offence, my lord.”

Athos waved him away. He stripped to his small clothes, and took off his shirt. A bath would be lovely, but he was too tired and overwrought to bear it.

Another knock. “Come in.”

It was not Piquet. “My maid said you were...Olivier, what in God’s name happened to you?”

He turned to Anne, who’d closed the door behind her. “What do you mean?”

She pointed at his chest. “Those scars. The burns.”

He shrugged. “Rénard and his men. I’m healed.”

“That must have taken some time. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, my dear. You’re not the first beautiful woman to tell me that today.”

Her lips quirked. “Ah yes. The lovely Constance. They are wed, then?”

“Of course. Her majesty graced us with her presence.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt she’ll do the same for us.”

“I doubt it too, but she has no idea I’m to be married. Or that I ever was. You forget which one of her personal guard she had any interest in.”

Anne came over to take his clothes and hang them up. “No word from our romantic hero?”

“None. How are you settling in?”

“Very well. I propose to spend much of your money on clothes. There’s a talented girl in Paris I’m hoping to entice here to serve as my personal seamstress.”

“Whatever you like, Anne. Make doublets for the horses and hats for the fence posts for all I care. Just make sure you put my crest on it.”

She laughed. “I might just do that. Why are you so tired? Was it a hard ride?”

“No.” Athos sagged against the bedpost. “D’Artagnan decided the night before his wedding was a perfect time to have an intimate discussion with me and as a result, I slept badly.”

“Intimate?”

He gave her a look. “Not like that.”

“Shame.”

“Anne.”

“What? The boy is acceptable enough in bed, for a beginner.”

“We are _not_ having this conversation.”

Another knock on the door Piquet with towels, and two menservants with hot water and basins. They left it all where Athos bid them, but he refused the offer of being bathed. As the door closed behind them, Anne smiled. “You’re out of practice at being a _comte_.”

“I never did allow that. Don’t tell me you do.”

“Why not? You have to give people things to occupy them or they think you don’t value them. Do you want to know what I’m wearing tomorrow?”

“No. Clothes are all I ask for.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

“Anne.”

“I do love it when you scold me like that. Do you want me to bathe you, my lord?”

He was sorely tempted, as tired as he was. But one thing would lead to another and his resistance to temptation had been greatly tested of late. “No, but thank you.”

As always, she easily read the meaning behind his refusal. “Tell me what would be the harm if we slept together, Olivier? Surely you don’t love every woman you’ve shared a bed with.”

“You imagine there have been so many. I'm thinking of your feelings, not mine. I don’t want to...give you hope.”

“And you don’t want me to convince you,” she said dryly, holding up her hand to forestall his protest. “But at the same time, you can hardly stand, you’re so tired, and you look miserable. Can’t we at least share a bed for your comfort? And mine?”

“All right.”

She gave him a look of surprise. “Really?”

“Why not? You win. Here.” He held out a cloth and slumped into a chair. “I don’t know that I care any more. He’s wed, I have surrendered him, I lost you over my morals. Who gives a damn?”

Frowning, she took the cloth. He closed his eyes, determined to let her do whatever she wanted with him. To his surprise, and no small relief, she cleaned him as dispassionately and carefully as any servant might, though with a welcome gentleness that came from a concern for his wellbeing. He let her strip him entirely, and lead him to bed. He watched as she undressed. “You are still the most lovely woman I know, Anne,” he murmured.

“Morals of a tomcat though.”

He was surprised she could describe herself thus. “Sadly, yes. I wish it was otherwise.”

She slid in beside him, quite naked. “They kept me alive, even if they lost me your affection. Dead but beloved, alive but despised. Which should I have chosen?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

She kissed his forehead, and snuggled in against him. “No. Go to sleep, my poor lovelorn _comte_. Tomorrow we will wed.”

“And then I must ride to war.”

“So soon?”

“Three days hence. You might never see me again.”

She shivered. “Please don’t, Olivier. Hate me or love me, I don’t want you gone from my life.”

“Nor do I wish to be. Not any more.”

“I’m glad.”

Her body in his arms, her breath on his neck, eased much of the pain he had held in his heart and his physical being for weeks now. D’Artagnan would not approve.

D’Artagnan was not here, and never would be again. Perhaps it was time Athos took the pleasures he could have, and stop moping about those he could not.

****************

He had wanted a simple wedding, just a mass and the sacrament, with as few people involved as possible. The villagers of Pinon felt otherwise, and turned out in great numbers to cheer him and his new _comtesse_ as they left the estate chapel. The lack of nobles attending only made the event more cheerful, at least for him. Anne was splendid in pale blue, her hair bound up with marguerites, the last of the year. He led her back to the house where they shared a cup of good wine and a little cake to mark their union, but no more than that, for he had a long ride ahead of him again.

She walked out with him as he went to the stables to mount Roger, and took his hand in hers. “Do not do anything to hasten your death, my lord. I have no wish to be a dowager before my time.”

“I’ll do my best, my lady.” He bent to kiss her head. “Be safe and well, Anne. I’m glad you are in my home for good.”

“You will always be welcome here and in my bed, as you know.” She took off the simple locket, the one she had worn when they were first together. He hadn’t seen it since then, before today. She put it around his neck. “Don’t be honourable, Olivier. Win, live, and come home.”

“As you wish. If you need to write, send it to Treville. I have no idea what arrangements are being made for letters, but he will be able to find me.”

“So will I. Godspeed, husband.”

His heart was considerably lighter as he rode back to Paris. Perhaps that was inappropriate, he thought, considering the gravity of what he and his comrades were about to embark on. But he would rather face battle and the risk of death with a smile on his lips than with a sullen grimace, and he felt like smiling today more than he had in a very long time.

Porthos saw him ride in. “So she didn’t eat you,” he said, taking the reins so Athos could dismount.

“No. There was cake instead.”

His friend squinted at him, suspicious. “You look happy.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not to me.” He flicked his head skywards. “They’re still up in your office.”

“Ah. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow....”

“No, Constance wanted to see you when you got back.”

“Very well. But I want to eat first. Join me?”

They unsaddled Roger together and walked to the mess. Now the novelty of the wedding was over, and the reality of going to war loomed, Athos sensed the men were contemplating what it meant for them, realising that some, many of their brothers may not come back from the venture. Porthos was looking forward to it, but he was an old hand at battle. Athos would rather have peace for the country’s sake.

“You don’t expect the king to sit on his hands though, do you?”

“No, I do not. But is the answer always war, Porthos?”

“Dunno. What do you think he should have done?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m glad not to be Minister of War.”

“Heh. Treville looks like a smacked arse most of the time now.”

Athos didn’t say, but he could guess Porthos would agree, that just dealing with Louis and all his wild ideas would be enough to make Treville look out of sorts.

“Nice of the queen to come to the wedding, I thought.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “A lovely gesture. One Treville probably advised against.”

“Nah. He was wild to see our Constance and d’Artagnan married. I think he thinks she’ll be a good influence or something.”

“She won’t have much chance before we go to influence anything or anyone.” Athos pushed his plate away. “I should go and see what she wants.”

“Knock first. Hard.”

Athos shook his head. “Unlike you, I’ve been newlywed. Twice now, in fact.”

Porthos leered. “No one’s as newlywed as this pair.”

Athos hoped the bed had survived. He climbed the stairs and did, in fact, knock extremely hard. He heard a couple of surprised squeaks, a good deal of shuffling and muttered swearing, and then d’Artagnan, looking out of breath, opened the door. “Sorry, we were just—”

Athos held up his hand. “Spare me the details. I have an imagination.” d’Artagnan, endearingly, blushed bright red. “May I come in?”

Constance looked a lot less ruffled than her spouse. She rushed up to hug him. “You came back safe!”

“No, Anne slit my throat after the ceremony and this is my ghost. Everyone’s been very silly about this. Porthos said you wanted to see me, Constance.”

“Yes. Please sit. I mean, it’s your office anyway.”

“Thank you.” Athos dropped his bags and took off his cloak but did nothing more to reclaim the room. He took a seat behind his desk. “How may I be of service, Madame d’Artagnan?”

“I haven’t got used to that at all,” she said with a grin. “Her majesty called me that and I had to look around before I realised.”

“She forgot me that fast,” d’Artagnan said mournfully. “Ow.” He rubbed his side where she’d poked him.

“Can we?” Athos made a ‘get on with it’ motion.

“Yes, of course. Athos, Charles said he came to see you the night before we married.”

Athos sat up straight. “Nothing happened.”

“I know that, silly. But we talked about it and how you feel, and if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have cancelled the wedding.”

“Then I am glad you did not. There is nothing more to—”

She held up her hand. “Please?”

“As you wish. But Constance...very well.” He subsided, wishing he hadn’t come to his office at all.

“Athos, you’re a friend. A very, very dear friend. I hope you know that. Not just because you helped save my life, but because of everything you’ve done for Charles, and the queen, and for me.”

“I feel the same, Constance. But this has no bearing—”

“Athos, take my advice—she’s not going to give up,” d’Artagnan said with a fond but exasperated look at his wife.

“Give up on what? Constance, now we have established our mutual admiration, what—?”

“I want you to sleep with d’Artagnan.”

Athos looked at her, then at him, and rolled his eyes. “Yes? And then what? Parade naked for the queen?”

“No, you idiot. You love him, I love him. I can’t be with him as a soldier, and you can’t be with him as a wife. So why can’t we share, then Charles will be with those who love him wherever he is.”

“And what, pray, does Charles think of this?” Athos asked, glaring at his subordinate. “Forgetting any notion of marital fidelity, or the law, or privacy on the battlefield.”

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “But I want to do it. Please, Athos, I hate that you hurt over me.”

“I’ll live.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. One can survive much worse.”

“Survive, yes. Live, no.” D’Artagnan took Constance’s hand. “She’s given me everything I’ve ever asked for in a woman. But she can’t give me what you give me. I’ve tried and tried to forget you, Athos, but I know how you feel about me, and I know how I love you. All I want is to be able to hold you and love you when I can.”

“And when you can’t? When you return home? I’ll be cast aside like a mistress past her prime.”

D’Artagnan looked down at his hands. “Not a mistress.”

“So what do you call a third party to a marriage then?”

“Beloved. My lover. The man I love, the man whom my wife approves of and wants to share me with.”

“I do,” Constance said, nodding. “I really do. You see, if there’s one thing this year has taught me is that life is short, and you never know when it’ll end. Professor Lemay asked me to marry him and two weeks later, he was dead. And I would have been too, if not for you boys. Athos, you nearly died, Charles tells me, and Charles nearly died at the hands of those slavers. Aramis, Porthos, even Milady, put their lives at risk, and you’ll all be doing that in a couple of days, for who knows how long. All I know is what I have now is all I can count on now, and I have love. I want you to have love too. Not just until you come back, but for as long as you both live. Please. I know you think I’m just a stupid woman—”

Athos leaned forward. “I have never thought that, and never would, my dearest Constance. You are kind, and brave, and loyal, and the finest of women. A woman I would gladly serve with or under, if you were male and a Musketeer, because I believe you would surpass us all.”

She flushed. “Oh. Then will you take me seriously? This isn’t a passing fancy, and I know it’s not for Charles either. We both love you in different ways. I don’t want my marriage to be based on pain for someone else.”

“It’s not.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan admonished. “I wasn’t _that_ drunk the other night. I pretended to be, so I could talk to you.”

Athos blinked. “You little...you had me quite convinced.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Porthos taught me.”

“You...asked Porthos to teach you how to act drunk?” D’Artagnan nodded. “Did you tell him why?”

“Said I wanted to talk to you, but you kept blocking me. He said you were always easier to talk to when drunk. Or if one of them was.”

“I’ll murder him,” Athos muttered, though he couldn’t help but smile.

“So, will you let Charles love you?” Constance asked. “At least, see how it goes?”

“Very well. For your sake.” She grinned, and Athos was unable to conceal his happiness. “And mine, and this insufferable nuisance’s. Now, shouldn’t you be back at the palace?”

“Oh yes,” she said, standing. “I’ll just go downstairs to say goodbye to Porthos. Charles, don’t be long. Athos, thank you for your office.”

Athos bowed his head. “I doubt it’s been put to such cheerful use in all its existence.”

She left with a bright smile to them both, blowing a kiss. D’Artagnan stood and looked down at him. “It was all her idea.”

“I’m sure. So given the outright luxury and total privacy of the battlefield, I imagine I’ll see you about once a week while you’re receiving orders.”

“That’s about it. But first.” He held out his hand and Athos took it while standing. “One last thing before I take my wife home.” He pulled Athos close, then kissed him gently, reverently on the lips. Athos suspected he could taste Constance on his mouth, and didn’t care at all. “All I want is the freedom to admit how I felt, and hold you when I can.”

“Then you have all you want, and all I want too.” He kissed d’Artagnan back, not gently and not reverently, but with love. The tenderest, most heartfelt love. They held each other for some time, content with each other, until Athos at last remembered that Constance was waiting in a dark yard for d’Artagnan. “You should go.”

“And then I’ll return and whatever happens, a part of me will be with you, as a part will be with her.”

“I tell you this, Charles d’Artagnan, if you neglect that dear woman in any way, I have men lining up to take her place. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very,” d’Artagnan said, grinning under Athos’s lips. He pulled away. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, and you’re both welcome. Go.”

Alone again, but this time not lonely, he took off his boots and doublet, hung up his weapons belt. The bed looked well used, and he was glad of that. D’Artagnan was a generous lover and Constance a passionate woman, and sex was a wonderful gift of the gods.

He had no idea what would befall them in the next few months. God forbid, even the next few years. But to know he would fight at the side of two of the three men he loved best, and the third was safe in his monastery, was of no small satisfaction. And to know that the man he loved was free to love him back was a joy he had never dared pray for. He wondered if Aramis’s god would have granted such a thing if he had.

 _I am the luckiest of men, and well loved_. Not the _comte de La Fère_ , or Oliver d’Athos, but simply Athos, Charles d’Artagnan’s lover, and his friend. A Musketeer.

“All for one, and one for all,” he whispered in the still air. Then he took himself to bed, and slept the sleep of a man completely at peace for the first time in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear, constant readers :)
> 
> Kudos, comments, corrections and criticisms all craved.


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